Not a Damsel in Distress
by Brilliant Brunette Beauty
Summary: Genevieve 'Vieve' Bancroft never asked to have Bruce Wayne as a father. She never even knew he was until recently. All she knows is she can't get close to him. She won't feel the pain she felt when her mother died. But with a new friend and chaos looming in Gotham City, is staying guarded possible? *Also on Quotev*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I have also posted this story on Quotev, in case any of you see it there.**

**I know, the concept of Batman having a daughter has been played out before, but I added a few elements to make this story very, very different and a whole lot more interesting. Also, there are some time inconsistencies that I need to clear up. The 'break' Bruce took that was mentioned in the paragraph about him near the beginning was not for the trial. For the sake of my timeline, he went to the trial 8 years later, when he already left college. Okay? Okay.**

**Sit back and enjoy, my dearest readers.**

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Some folks have the luxury of a loving family to go home to every day. Children have loving, attentive parents, or adults have their spouse and children. It's what you see all around you, what you're taught to believe is normal and desired. People without a significant other are either 'lonely', a disgusting womanizer/slut, or searching desperately for one person to share their life with. Children without parents are a tragedy and branded with that mark for the rest of their lives, pitied because of their unfortunate situation.

Some of us are those miserable few.

My name is Genevieve Iris Bancroft, and I am alone.

My story starts when I was born to a young mother, Juliet Bancroft. She was a student at Princeton University, a gifted and talented one, when she learned she was pregnant with yours truly. I'll admit, when she revealed this fact to me, I felt guilty for my existence. She had to drop out school for me. She gave up everything for me, a baby not yet born that she didn't even have to keep. But she did keep me. And I'm grateful she did. Without me in the picture, she could have been and done so much more, but she refused to give up on me. She was everything a mother should be.

Information on my father was always scarce. My mother only told me that the two dated casually while he attended Princeton also. She never told him of her pregnancy before he left the school for a break, essentially dumping my mother in the process. He's always been an enigma my whole life. I never blamed him for anything like most children blame their absent parents. He never knew about me. Why should I expect him to be around? Mom gave me a note to open when I turn eighteen which she said will reveal the full identity of this mystery man who I share my DNA with.

But enough about that! The real story starts after my birth.

You see, my mother was also one of those people unfortunate enough to have no parents. Her mother lived long enough just to see me, her only grandchild, born. My grandparents were not rich by any means. They barely got Mom through college. Though Mom, an only child, got all of my grandparent's inheritance, it was not enough to live off of for too long. And without a college education, she couldn't secure a great job. She had no living family and no friends in the area that could look after me, so she couldn't go back to Princeton. It was the typical catch 22; she couldn't get a job to support me without a college education, but she couldn't get a college education while raising me. Just another reason my own birth causes me guilt.

Mom worked a series of odd jobs during my early childhood, like a waitress, a secretary, and a store clerk. We lived in a shoebox apartment, barely making the rent. I can remember being five years old and waiting patiently for my mom to come home at midnight so I could give her a big hug before she was off again for the night shift at a different job. It was not ideal, but it worked just fine for us. Despite this schedule, she was a loving mother. She was more than I could even ask for.

All that changed in the blink of an eye when I was six. My mom met a very charming, very handsome man while working as a secretary. He was the big shot, the head honcho. He had that allure of power that drew people to him, and Mom was one of those people. The two dated for quite some time before he moved us into his house. As a six year old, I was excited to have my own spacious room and the man I had previously resented for taking up my mom's time was now in my good graces. Not too long after that, he and my mother were married in a beautiful little ceremony in which I was the flower girl.

It's like the words 'I do' cast some sort of terrible spell. I almost thought the reverend was an evil wizard who cursed my family. Not long after the wedding, my mother's husband – now my step-father – changed in a big way. He used to lavish my mom with gifts and compliments, treating her like she was the queen in his kingdom. He messed with my hair when he came home each day, calling me 'kiddo' and other terms of endearment.

Seemingly overnight, this all changed drastically. His behavior made a complete 180 turn, leaving my head spinning. When I ran up to him asking him to play with me when he got home from work, he would only grumble that he was either too tired or too busy for kid stuff. He bothered Mom about her low position as secretary at work. According to him, she didn't have enough 'ambition' to raise herself up on the totem pole and make our family more money. More like she didn't have the degree. But he didn't care about that. Months passed, and he started to pester her to have another child. Mom remained firm in her stance that one was quite enough for her, but he didn't want to take no for an answer. I guess I wasn't enough for him. I always suspected he was secretly bothered by the fact that I wasn't his biological child. He was never able to get over that.

Then, it happened. The breaking point was finally reached. I was seven years old by this time and feeling very tired of walking on eggshells around my stepfather like he was some sort of ticking time bomb. I was tired of being scared he'd yell at me every time I opened my mouth. So, one night when he was going off on a superficial rant about how my grades were not 'satisfactory', I lost my temper. I told him exactly what I thought about his arrogant and self-righteous attitude. I told him how I was done being uncomfortable in my own home. His face went as red as a tomato when I told him my thoughts about him. Before I knew what was happening, he stepped closer to me and proceeded to slap me straight across the face. I couldn't believe it happened. I just stood there, frozen in my place, wondering what to do next. My face stung. Tears came to my eyes, more from anger than from the pain in my cheek. He left my room without a word and closed the door. I stood in my place for what felt like hours, weighing my options while trying to grasp what exactly had happened.

I debated with myself for a few days on whether or not to burden my mother with this. She was still trying to keep her job afloat and stand his domineering attitude while at the same time being a good mother to me. In the end, I didn't have to tell her. Almost a week after that night, the two had a devastating fight. Mom accused him of being an unsupportive husband, while he placed the blame for their problems on her. The things he screamed at her were all unforgivable and vile. He accused her of being terrible at her job because she was 'uneducated', of being an inattentive mother to me, and even of having another man stashed on the side. It was laughable. Like Mom of all people was having an affair. She didn't even have the time to cheat, much less the morals to.

I heard the screaming escalate in volume. Glass was being thrown around the kitchen from both sides. I just wanted it all to come to an end. And it did. Oh, it did. It ended when I heard a slapping sound, along with Mom's scream before I heard her fall to the ground. My stomach lurched in disgust. Hitting _me_ had been one thing. That was terrible, but him hitting my mom? That was unforgivable. I felt the guilt piled on to me build even more. I should have gone down to the kitchen and defended her. However, the fear was ingrained into me already. The feel of his hand hitting my cheek was still fresh in my mind. I was afraid of being smacked by him again, so I stayed put and just cried for both myself and my mother.

I fell asleep that night after the crying exhausted me. I burrowed myself in my covers and hoped that by doing that, he would not be able to reach me. Before the sun even rose, my mom woke me up. She shook me awake and whispered to me quietly, telling me it was time to get up. Both her luggage and mine sat on the floor next to us. It was barely six a.m. and my step-father had just left for work. She should have been at work too. Why was she still here, I wondered. When she grabbed my hand and helped me out of bed, I knew we were going somewhere. I put my shoes on while still in my pajamas. They were barely laced up when Mom rushed me out of the house and into her car, buckling me up. I asked her where we were going, but she just gripped the steering wheel tighter and said 'somewhere safe'.

I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of relief wash over me. I did not associate the word 'safe' with the image of my step-father. We were going somewhere far away from _him_, somewhere he wouldn't be able to find us. I felt like we were finally going to piece our lives back together the way it was before the wedding. It had always been Mom and I against the world before he came into the picture. I couldn't wait for it to be that way again.

Mom drove us to a hotel just outside the city limits where we could finally feel safe. Because he isolated her from almost all of society besides work and himself, my mother had no friends. They all bailed when she stopped talking to them. So, the hotel room was all we could manage on such short notice. We would find an apartment later, but for now, this was our safe haven.

The next morning, Mom drove me to school in the morning, promising to pick me up later in the day. I went to school, feeling happy for one of the first times in a very long time. I was free of this weight that bared down on my life. I should have been ecstatic. Yet, at the same time, an anxious feeling settled in my gut. It turned my insides over and buried itself deep inside my stomach. I wanted to get back to the hotel room as quickly as possible. School couldn't end fast enough. When the last class of the day ended, I ran out to the front of the building, sat on the bench, and waited patiently for my mom to show up and soothe my troubled mind.

I sat on the hard, red bench for nearly two hours. After the first hour, I told myself that she was going to come at any moment. Twenty minutes later, I told myself that she had gotten lost on her way here. We were outside the city limits, after all. Maybe she had taken a short cut and got lost. That sounded like classic Mom. When the second hour was up, I was done waiting. None of the kids remained in the school, and almost all the teachers had gone back to their families for the night. I sure wish I could have, as well. The last of the teachers exited the building and glanced at me sitting on the lonely red bench. When she offered me a ride home, I did not refuse. By this time, I was seriously concerned about Mom and the anxious feeling had grown ten-fold. Was she in a car crash? Did she has some sort of accident while in the hotel room? I needed to know she was okay, but at the same time, I dreaded knowing anything bad.

I gave my teacher directions to the hotel as best as I could. Before we even approached the building, I could see the glaring blue and red lights come into view. They burned my eyes, but my mind did not register the seriousness of their presence. I just thought it was a robbery or a drunk driver or something like that; you know, like you always assume when you see police cars pass you by on the street or anywhere else. You don't think twice, which is what I did. That is, until I saw them all parked in the hotel parking lot. My heart dropped, but I told myself that it was probably someone else. I thought that maybe Mom wasn't allowed to leave because they weren't letting anybody out. I looked around at the crowd of people talking to the police, and I looked for the shock of red hair that made her stand out in crowds. I searched until I had to squint my eyes to see each individual head in the crowd. No redheads.

At this point, I panicked. Where was she? Was she okay? So, I threw open the car door and ran out, not listening to my teacher yelling at me to get back in the car. I ran straight to the front door, intending on taking the elevator up to our room. Before I could reach it, a police officer obstructed my path. I collided with him, but attempted to keep moving. He grabbed me before I could. No matter how much I jerked and thrashed, he wouldn't let me go. I started to cry tears of fear and frustration. He just didn't understand! My mother was all I had. He was keeping her from me.

I screamed at him that I needed to find my mother and that she hadn't picked me up from school that day. A sad expression befell his face, and my heart just dropped. I was torn between wanting desperately to reach my mom wherever she was and wanting to run far, far away from here. I didn't want to know why he was looking at me so sadly, like I was a kicked puppy. I didn't want to come to the inevitable conclusion. I refused to come to that conclusion.

He asked me if my mother was Juliet Bancroft. I swallowed hard and told myself to breathe before I nodded my head. I felt as though another two hours passed between us as he paused, waiting to say something. I stared at his mouth as sound spewed out of him, forming sentences I couldn't quite understand.

Words like 'mother', 'shot', 'homicide', 'suicide', 'husband', and finally 'sorry' came out of his mouth. It made no sense to me. None of it did. I couldn't put it together in my brain. As far as I was concerned, none of this pertained to me. I just wanted to see my mother, to have her hug me and say this was all just some big misunderstanding and we'll be moving into an apartment soon. But then it all finally did make sense. Realization hit me like a tidal wave. The fact that Mom was gone smacked me across the face. And this time, it hurt more than any hit from my step-father ever could.

I learned the details later. My step-father had a GPS tracking device underneath the trunk of the car. He always had in order to keep tabs on my mom. Her leaving enraged him, so when he tracked her to the location of the hotel, he took out his gun and drove all the way to there. He managed to kick the door in and then shot my mom in the head before turning the gun on himself. My mom's death was just the act of a selfish man with the kindergarten mentality of 'if I can't have it, no one can'. And that was it. With one shot of his gun, Mom's young and promising life was ended brutally, so much more brutally than someone as kind as her ever deserved. I was an orphan all because of one act of selfishness.

My grandparents were dead and had both been single children. Similarly, my mom was an only child. There were no aunts or uncles I could move in with. There wasn't a distant aunt or fifth cousin twice removed who could take me. Mom had no friends because of his isolation of her. I knew of no one who wanted to take me in. So, that is how social services gained complete control over my life.

At first, I was resentful. I was angry at everything and everyone. I was angry my mom had to die and angry that I was going to be put into a foster home. I felt like no one listened to what I had to say on the matter, even though it was _my_ life. When I was placed in my very first foster home, I was even angrier. The couple was normal enough. They had no children, natural or foster. They gave me a room to sleep in and fed me, clothed me, and attended to all my needs. However, they seemed to have no intent on adopting me. I made absolutely sure of that with how I acted. I was cold towards them. I rarely spoke to them. When they would try to strike up a friendly conversation, I would cut them off with a hard glare and give a snappy, one word response. When they tried to suggest I should be given therapy to help myself cope with my mother's death, I screamed that I was perfectly fine and stormed off to my room, slamming the door behind me. The poor people could only take so much, and eventually, I was sent back to a group home in between foster houses.

The same pattern occurred over and over again, until I was bluntly told by a social worker that I would most likely never be adopted. That was a wake-up call for me. I thought over why I did what I did. Why did I push every one away, even when they wanted to help me? I was still angry. I was angry at the people I was forced to live with. How dare they try to replace Mom? I was angry at the world, but mostly, I was angry at _myself_. I felt like letting someone in again would only result in feeling what I did when Mom died. I didn't want to learn to love something only to have it cruelly ripped away from me again. So, I pushed people away before they could do the same to me.

It was a slow process, but eventually, I mellowed out. I learned how to handle things without losing my temper or shutting everyone out. But mostly, I learned how to stop being so damn angry all the time. I was thirteen by the time I stopped giving my foster family attitude. But by then, the damage had already been done. I had already been labeled a 'hopeless cause' and 'unstable'. Many people did not want to let a high risk case such as my own into their home. The ones who did take me in still had trouble communicating with me. Just because I was no longer an angry mess doesn't mean I was a perfectly stable child. I didn't know much about making friends and I preferred to spend my time alone. This was not the behavior many people wanted in a future child. I was not adopted, just like my case worker predicted.

My last foster home was a woman who was hoping to find a teenager she could adopt. After two days of me living in her home, I could tell she was immensely disappointed and wanted to send me back to the group home. However, I decided to be completely honest with her. I told her I knew she didn't want me around, but I was desperate for at least a few months of stability in my life. She reluctantly agreed to keep me around for longer than she planned.

And now, we have finally come full circle. Congratulations!

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**A/N: Like I said, this will not be a normal 'Batman's daughter' story by any accounts. The plot will generally follow the Batman Begins plot... in theory. But I think you'll be able to notice in the next 5 chapters, maybe, the biggest difference I add in.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to the people who followed and favorited me! I hope to lure some more of you in to this story in the future *devious smile*. Onward with the story!**

**Also, remember, this is on Quotev too. My account name is _Rae Lori Jane_.**

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Right now, I'm sitting on my temporary bed in my temporary house with my pajama clad legs crossed, staring down at the envelope clutched tightly in my hand. I promised Mom I wouldn't open this until I turned eighteen. She never even did anything except tell me about it until she relinquished it to me in her will. I'm newly fifteen, but I'm growing desperate. My time in this foster home is coming to a close. I can feel the tension between us building each and every day. She can't stand that I'm a loner, and I can't stand her lack of respect when it comes to my privacy. Pretty soon, I'll be back in that horrid group home, waiting for someone to take me in just so they can give me back again like I'm a broken doll. I need this letter to find out who my father is, and hopefully find him wherever he might be.

I stare at it, with my name imprinted on the front in my mom's weird half-cursive half-regular writing, and debate reading what's inside. What would Mom think? I want to say she'd understand my need to know my father's identity at this point in my life. She was always understanding of my needs. And right now, I need a stable home. This might not give me that, but it's my only shot. At least, it's the only one I can see. How could my own father turn me out?

With shaky hands, I start to open the envelope. Each little tearing sound makes me jump, like Mom is in the room with me and can hear me disobeying her. Even when it's open, I still just sit staring at it. I've had it since she died. I would just stare at it until now. Now a long, jagged tear mars the perfectly sealed letter that I used to run my fingers over whenever opening it was tempting. It's too late to go back now.

I slip the note out of the envelope and unfold it quickly before I can lose my courage. I shut my eyes for a few more moments and take a deep breath. I have to work up some nerve. The same feeling I had when the police officer caught me at the scene of Mom's murder takes a hold of me. I feel the same desire to know the truth, but the same fear of it. What if I find something I don't want to know? What if my father is just like my step-father was? Oh, come one Vieve! Just read the damn letter!

I slowly open my eyes and look at the page in front of me.

_My dear Genevieve,_

_If you are reading this letter, that must mean I am dead. If I am reading it to you myself, you must finally be eighteen. Happy birthday either way, but I certainly hope it's the second!_

I wish that too, Mom.

_I'm sure that whether or not I'm dead, you're reading (or listening to) this letter mainly to know about your father. Well, honey, that can wait a little while._

What? Is this some kind of joke?

_First, I need to tell you how sorry I am. I know I've always tried to be the mother you deserve, but I also know that I can't provide for you the way most mothers can. I wish so badly that you and I could have spent more time together. I'm sorry I was always working. You are five as I write this letter, and I still see no way I'll stop working 3 jobs a day until you graduate. But, you must know this; I love you more than life itself and every second of work is worth it in order to keep you._

My eyes begin to mist slightly as I understand that this letter is more than just a secret being revealed; it's a way for her to communicate with me even in death. I've missed this so much, especially now in my teen years, when I need her the most. Still, I force myself to dry my eyes. I haven't cried in years, and I won't start back up today.

_Now, I will tell you what you're probably reading this to know. I will tell you more about your father. I only hope you do not hate me for not giving you this information before. I just never knew how to tell you, and I wanted to wait until I was sure you could handle it and look at it from an adult perspective._

I take a deep, shaky breath and prepare myself for this life-changing information. I'm finally going to know about my father after fifteen years of a life without him in it.

_I already told you we were both Princeton students. Your father was a year older than me, like most people in my year because of my September birthday. Even then, he had this air of maturity that the other boys I knew there lacked. It drew me to him. He had the most brilliant hazel eyes and beautiful brown hair that I see when I look at you. His name was Bruce Wayne and he came to Princeton all the way from Gotham City._

I nearly stop breathing. I now have a name and a place. A name and a place might be all I need! I know where I got my hazel, debatably green/blue eyes and brown hair. I know I got the auburn tint from Mom, but now I know he gave me the main color. They may be the only things he's ever given me.

_His parents were killed when he was only eight. It was a mugging gone bad that claimed their lives, and he witnessed it. He was always very evasive about it, so I never pushed the issue. He was highly intelligent, and I could tell how he was able to get into Princeton. Well, his intelligence was the main reason, but his money certainly didn't hurt. He came from the Waynes of Gotham, a very rich family and owners of Wayne Enterprises. They made the train lines that ran through Gotham City. In short, your father was loaded. But, he never flaunted it. He was always so well-rounded and very down to earth._

My father is rich? I honestly expected him to be a deadbeat or addicted to drugs or _something _undesirable that I would be forced to look past. Isn't this how most absent parents turn out?

_Your father left Princeton for a short time. Or, at least, that's what I thought it was going to be. He didn't return before I learned of my pregnancy. When I left, he had yet to return. I never heard from him or knew what happened to him or even knew if or when he returned to Princeton. I was too busy panicking over my surprise pregnancy to know or frankly care. But, I suppose if you wish to find him, it is your choice to make. He was a good man when I knew him. I think he'll do right by you._

_Vieve, I wasn't able to raise you in the way my parents raised me, and I do have many regrets, but I hope I did right by you in the end._

_I love you,_

_Mom_

I put down the note and blink the mist my eyes formed from the 'I love you'. How do I even begin to process this? My father, a man I always considered to be some sort of shadow that resided in the background of my life, has an identity. He's Bruce Wayne, a rich citizen of Gotham City with a past similar to mine. I'm overwhelmed with all this new information. I don't know where to start, what to do. But, one thought sticks out in my head.

I have to find him.

* * *

I hand the list of useful information I wrote down from the note to my kindly caseworker, Lucinda Wexler. She's one of the few people alive that I'm close to. Usually, I'm clueless on normal social interactions and how to befriend people, but Lucinda never expected anything from me when we met. Unlike most people in the foster care system, I always feel like she cares about my opinions. I trust her.

"Do you think it's enough?" I ask anxiously. Lucinda puts her finger up to silence me as she reads the rest of the list. I bite my tongue and wait for her input. I hope what I got from the note is useful enough to find this mysterious character that is my father.

"Well, Vieve, I have to hand it to you. You really collected quite a lot of useful information on your father." I give a silent cheer in my head. Mom is the one who is truly to thank here. She gave me all I needed to know. I just gathered it all up in a list because, even if I do trust Lucinda, the letter is too personal to just give her the whole thing when I don't have to.

"So, can we find the guy?" I ask excitedly. Lucinda laughs a little before handing me back my list.

"I don't think we need to look too far. I know who this man is."

I look at Lucinda in confusion. Gotham City is a long way from New Jersey. She's a social worker who almost never leaves the state. How would their two paths cross?

"You've met my father?" I ask. Lucinda shakes her head.

"No, but I've heard of him. Almost everyone has. He is the 'Prince of Gotham' or whatever it is they call him over there. He went missing nearly seven years ago and they had him pronounced dead. There was no trace of him. It was like he vanished into thin air. Rumor has it he's back in Gotham unscathed after all this time, like nothing happened. Weird, right?"

So, my father just up and disappeared, and now he's back just as suddenly. I'm beginning to think that maybe my family is more messed up than I ever thought. But, maybe the man just wanted some time away from everyone! Some days I wake up and feel like I could do the same thing, running away so no one would ever be able to find me until I wanted them to. I don't think I would disappear for seven years, though. That's a little extreme to say the least.

"Can you contact him? Can you get him over here?" Lucinda places a hand on my shoulder to calm me.

"I certainly will try, dear. I can't guarantee it will work, but I'll try." That's good enough for me. I jump and wrap my arms around Lucinda's neck in a big hug and bury my head in her shoulder. Normally, I would stay a good amount of distance away from most people, but Lucinda is the exception to that rule. Especially when she's caught me in a good mood.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I squeal in excitement. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up if there's a possibility they could just get crushed, but I'm too excited right now to care. This could be my opportunity to have a normal life like all the teens I know do! Or at least, as normal as someone like _me_ could possibly have it.

"Will you tell me when you have any response from him or any information?" I ask. Lucinda gives me an affectionate pat on the head and messes with my hair a bit.

"You bet. Now, get back home before Ms. Riley notices you're gone." Like me, Lucinda refers to my foster mother politely by 'Ms.' I have never been able to force myself to call adults by their first name. It just sounds so disrespectful, and Mom taught me not to. Besides, I've never been close enough to any of them to call them by anything besides 'Mr.' and 'Ms.' Calling them by their first name would make it sound like we're actually _friends_. That's just laughable. Me, friends with my foster parents? Ha! With Lucinda, I'm able to use her first name because she is my friend. My _only _friend.

"Okay. Thanks again, Lucinda. I don't know what I'd do without you!" She smiles and waves at me as I skip out of her office and head outside. I wrap my jacket tighter around my body as I walk down the nearly deserted street. My foster mother's house is relatively short distance from Lucinda's office, but the walk back always unnerves me. I guess such a serious crime happening to my family before has put me on edge. I carry pepper spray in my bag everywhere I go. I am heavily distrustful of the human race as a whole. I refuse to become a victim like Mom became. Being a strong woman didn't protect her. That's why I'm always prepared.

I turn my key in the lock as I open the door and enter the house I've been living in for about a month. It's my… 11th foster home? Yeah, that sounds about right. I had an average of about two a year until I turned thirteen. One from seven until I soon turned eight, two when I was eight to nine, two when I was ten, two when I was eleven, two when I was twelve, one from thirteen to fourteen, and then this one. 11 foster homes is a big amount. Usually, children will stay in one for many years, maybe two to four throughout their lives until they're eighteen, but when I say I was a problem child, I'm not joking around. Even afterwards, would you really want a socially awkward loner living in your house? As soon as someone reads my case file, everything is ruined.

I'm glad Ms. Riley isn't home. I don't have to give her an awkward hello and have her grill me on where I've been, even though she knows Lucinda is my only friend. Where else could I possibly go, lady? She seems to think she has to take her job as my caretaker more seriously than she actually has to. She just has to make sure I have food to eat and a bed to sleep in. Seriously, the rest doesn't concern her. Yet she takes it upon herself to treat me like I'm her rebellious teen daughter when I'm not her daughter or rebellious. See, this is why people shouldn't read my case file!

I plop myself down on the bed of the dark room, put on some headphones to block out all sound, and fall into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

_*BZZZ*_

_*BZZZ*_

_*BZZZZZZZ*_

My head snaps up out of the pillow at the sound of my cell phone vibrating on the nightstand next to me. The phone was a gift from Lucinda. I help her pay the bills on it. It's a way for us to communicate and in case of emergencies. Right now, I really hope this text is important.

It's been a few weeks since I've given Lucinda the information about my biological father in hopes she could track him down. I thought it would be easy considering how famous he supposedly is, but apparently, it isn't that black and white. She's told me she has yet to be able to contact him yet, but she feels as though she's close. Of freaking course. Why did I expect it to be easy? Nothing ever is for me.

I open my text up and read the bolded words that run across the screen.

_My office. NOW._

My heart starts to beat faster automatically. This has to be related to Bruce Wayne. That name has stuck in my brain ever since I learned it. I've repeated it over and over again, trying to determine if I've ever heard it outside of having read it. So far, I can't think of any time when I've even heard it come up in conversation. I think I like the name, though. I caught myself trying out his last name with my name. How does 'Genevieve Iris Wayne' sound? What about 'Vieve Wayne'? 'Genevieve Wayne'? I know, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Even if Lucinda found him like I hope, he might not even want me. I mean, why would he even bother? He's a young billionaire who probably has no responsibilities. He could easily cover this up and no one would even know he has a kid. All he needs to do is ignore Lucinda's attempts to contact him and viola, problem solved.

A feeling of anxiety bubbles up inside me at that thought. I haven't really thought of the possibility of rejection until now, and it terrifies me. As a long time foster kid, I know what rejection feels like, and I despise it. Nothing is worse than basically being told that you're unlovable. I decide to ignore the feeling and drag myself off the bed before swinging open the closet. I grab a sweater and jeans out of the nearly empty closet on. I've never had many clothes, so picking out what to wear has never been a problem for me. I just throw on my baby blue sweater, jeans and a pair of brown boots then zip up my brown leather jacket and take my old bag, stuffing my cell phone into it. I walk out of my temporary room and head to the front door. Ms. Riley is at work by now, so I'm able to leave without any of her questions. I prefer it this way. She has her life, I have mine. I like to keep our lives as separate as possible.

I jog to Lucinda's office in record time with my bag clutched tightly at my side. The note from my mother is in there, tucked in one of the inner pockets. My entire life is practically in my bag; the note, old photos, important documents, my cell phone, and my mother's locket when I'm not wearing it all reside in this worn, beaten leather satchel.

I burst into the social services building, check in with the secretary, and rush to Lucinda's office. I probably look like a windblown mess, but I really don't care. I open the door and jump into the armchair she has in her office that I have claimed as my seat.

"So, what's with this urgent sounding text?" I ask, rocking back and forth in my seat. Lucinda holds up a sticky note from her desk. I quickly grab it and read it to myself.

_Appointment:_

_Saturday, 12:00 p.m._

_Bruce Wayne_

My eyes pop out and my mouth drops open. He's coming here. Like, he's actually physically going to be in this room, not in the back of my mind and the dark crevices of my thoughts. Suddenly, I regret ever telling Lucinda to track him down. I can't do this. I really, _really _can't do this!

"Lucinda, how did you manage this?" I ask in a shaky voice. She gives me a sympathetic look. This is another reason why she's my only friend. She's so understanding. She reminds me of my mom.

"I was able to get to him through his butler. People just don't ignore a social services worker." She smiles kindly. "His butler put me on the phone with Bruce himself. By the way, your father has a sexy voice."

"LUCINDA!" I cry in embarrassment. She just laughs and continues on with her story.

"Anyway, I explained the situation as best as I could to him in a, um… delicate way. I made it clear that there was a good amount of substantial evidence that pointed to the fact that he could very well be your father, whether or not it could easily be proved false. When I said your mother's name, he was quiet for a few moments before he insisted on making an appointment with me as soon as possible."

"But it's tomorrow!" I exclaim. I have to be ready for this by tomorrow. I have no time to mentally prepare myself for this. I might have to come face to face with the man who I've always just imagined. He's always been a shadow in my life, residing in the background. What if he isn't at all what I imagined, or what if he is but I ruin my chances like always?

"Do I have to meet him?" I ask Lucinda. She smiles and nods.

"You know how these things work, Vieve. Just be yourself! You're natural around me and I think you're pretty darn great." I roll my eyes. Lucinda gets along with _everyone_. She has that maternal instinct and quality about her. My inability to get along with the population as a whole evaporated when I met her at age eleven. She's the only person I've gotten along with since I was seven and all the charisma and charm I ever had went down the drain.

"Okay, I guess…" In truth, I'm terrified. I'll scare him off, I'm sure of it. Why would anyone want to have a kid like me in their home? I'm bad at social interaction, I have strange taste, I'm painfully shy, and I still have some lingering anger issues that come out at the worst times. Therapists should use me in their ads: MAKE AN APPOINMENT TODAY OR END UP LIKE THIS GIRL!

"Trust me, Vieve. You'll do just fine." I smile at Lucinda's blind optimism. I just have to face this head on like a big girl. What's the worst that could happen?

Wait, don't answer that.

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**A/N: It's so much fun to mess around with the lives of people in your story when you know it won't affect you, isn't it? Ahhhh, I'm so evil. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A concern was brought up before: is this story just a regular 'daughter of' story that you can find in any category. This may be based in Batman Begins, but my OC is going on her own adventure entirely different from Batman's and the adventures he goes on in this movie. Sure, the Scarecrow will be in here, but a wonderful little plot twist is going to enter Vieve's life in the 5th chapter and change things up for HER- not Batman.**

**Remember, this is also on my Quotev account. Just so no one thinks this is stolen or something.**

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Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh GOD.

I'm sitting in Lucinda's office, preparing for the arrival of Mr. Bruce Wayne himself. My father. The man my mother very obviously loved. The man who left her. When I woke up this morning, I threw on what I consider to be my best clothes, brushed my long hair and pinned it into a tight bun, dabbed on the makeup I rarely use, and then grabbed my bag. When I walked to the front door, I quickly told Ms. Riley that I had a meeting with Lucinda about my future living arrangements. And I mean quickly. I talked at a car salesman pace and then rushed out the door before she could ask any questions. I doubt she really cares about having a say in it. She just wants me gone. As long as I'm with her, she'll be hard on me, but it's all an act she keeps up to make herself seem like a good foster parent.

Now, here I am. He'll be here any minute. I feel like I'm going to throw up from this weird, tingling feeling inside my stomach. I don't know if it's supposed to be excitement or fear. Maybe it's a mixture of the two churning up inside me like a weird, emotion tornado. Whatever it is, I still wish I didn't have to be here. Why is my presence a requirement? No one ever seemed to care what my thoughts about my living arrangements were before, and now suddenly it's wanted? Well, in that case, it's eight years too late.

"Clam down," Lucinda says soothingly. "Everything will go just fine."

"But you know how I am with people!" I shoot back nervously. "How can I talk to this guy when the only person I've had a real conversation with in the past eight years is you?"

Lucinda shakes her head like my mother used to when I was being ridiculous. I don't even pretend to be annoyed at the action anymore. I'll take some motherly advice wherever I can get it.

"Vieve, if he doesn't like you for who you are, then he is not worth your time."

I want to laugh. I would if I didn't feel like I'd puke afterwards. That is a very Lucinda thing to say. She's always telling me what a beautiful, intelligent, brave, strong young woman I am. Her conviction makes it almost believable at times.

"You're better off alone than with someone who doesn't respect you," she says quietly. I only wish Mom had known that before it was too late. I sigh sadly.

"I know, Lucinda, but I really don't want to-,"

My sentence is cut off by a knock on the door, then by the sound of the door opening. You know, it's that polite knock that someone does when they aren't waiting for a response, but they want to let you know that they're about to enter. Lucinda looks behind me and smiles at the man standing in the doorway; at my father.

"Welcome, Mr. Wayne. Please, come in."

On instinct, I look behind me to examine him for the first time ever. I was definitely not prepared to see my father in person, but now it's too late. I see him and take in his features. He certainly is handsome, I'll give him that. He has dark brown hair that looks thick and full. I guess that's where I get it from. His eyes are hazel, a mirror of mine. He has a slim, but muscular build. He's wearing a casual suit, but it looks to be an expensive one. So, I take it he's still loaded. How did I even picture him before? I can't remember how I pictured him before seeing him. This is who he is now. This is who he's always been. I can't imagine to my heart's desire anymore. Suddenly, my elusive father is a real, living, breathing person.

And I'm not sure how I feel about that.

"Hello, Ms. Wexler," he greets her. Lucinda was right. His voice is very pleasing to the ear. I won't call is sexy because, well, he's my father. That would just be weird. Lucinda gestures to a chair for him to sit down. To my horror, it's the chair next to me. Meaning it's close to me. Meaning _he _will be close to me. Did I mention I don't like when people get too close to me?

"Take a seat, Mr. Wayne."

He does so. I don't know if he looks at me because my head is facing downwards in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. He hasn't acknowledged me yet. He probably doesn't even know my _name_ yet. I wish I could just sink into the floor and disappear from this whole disaster. I really, really don't want to be here.

"Now, Ms. Wexler, I'm sure you can imagine my confusion over this entire… _situation_." Now I really wish I could just disappear. He says it as if he's trying to find the right words for this and make it as painless as possible. This _situation_? Confusion? Hasn't anyone given him the birds and the bees talk? He and Mom were together, and then the two of them produced me. It's as simple as that.

"I understand, Mr. Wayne," Lucinda replies in a very Lucinda-like way. She's so good with people, unlike me. "Genevieve is very confused too. She did not even know your name until two weeks ago." I finally look up at the mention of my name. For some strange reason, I'm compelled to look next to me, right at Mr. Wayne. A small, crooked grin graces his face.

"So Genevieve is your name?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. I guess that's the polite thing to do. "It's very pretty. I like it." I try to smile in response like most normal people would at a compliment, but I'm still so embarrassed and so extremely shy that I blush furiously instead. Besides, I hate my actual name. I think it sounds too elegant, if that makes any sense. It's just not me. He realizes it's futile and looks back to Lucinda to continue their conversation.

"Now, how exactly was it determined I am her father? Where is Juliet?" My heart hurts at the mention of her name. No one has brought it up in years, not even Lucinda. She understands I am not ready to hear it. I can't believe he doesn't know what happened. He never looked her up over the years? He was never the least bit curious?

"She died eight years ago," I choke out painfully. I can hear the hurt lacing each word. It's the first time I've spoken since this little meeting started. I hope it's the last, because I'm still bad at social interactions.

"Oh," he says in a small voice. When I look up at him, I can see what I think to be… sadness? I'm not sure. Whatever it is, he forces it away quickly. I look back down, fiddling with my hands. "I'm so sorry. She was a wonderful lady." My throat constricts and I tell myself not to cry, especially not in front of him. He didn't know her like I did. I don't care if they dated. No one knew her like I did, and now no one ever will.

"I-I don't like t-to… I don't like to talk about it." I glance up from the ground slightly and meet his eyes from where I got mine. He's looking at me with pity, a look I have grown to loath over the years. I got it every day for weeks after Mom died from random people who didn't even know her, and I always hated it. So I look back down at the ground, keeping myself guarded from his sad gaze.

"To answer your question, Mr. Wayne," Lucinda interjects, "Genevieve opened a letter left to her by Ms. Bancroft that named you as her father." She then pauses. I look up and see her pause was to look at me expectantly. I can feel Mr. Wayne's gaze on me from the side. Wonderful; I'm once again the center of attention.

"Vieve?" she asks. I can't help but feel a teeny bit betrayed at her use of my nickname in front of someone else. The only people to ever call me by that are Lucinda and Mom. Why should I give that right to anybody else?

Oh no. Here comes my angry side that I've worked so hard to repress.

"Would you care to show Mr. Wayne your mother's note?" I want to flat out refuse her request. I want to stand up and march right out of here like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum. That note is personal. It's the last thing Mom will ever tell me. It was meant for my eyes and my eyes only. But, I'm done being doubted. I want to make him believe what my mother told me. Mom would not lie about this, especially not to me.

I open my bag and reach for the note Mom gifted me with. I shove it towards Mr. Wayne, hitting his chest with it. He takes the letter hesitantly. I don't resist, silently letting him know that he has my permission, albeit hesitantly. When he opens the note, I have to look away again. The beginning of the letter is so personal, so _mine_, that I can't stand the fact that he's reading it right now. There's a reason the letter was addressed to me and not him.

"Well, this letter certainly makes things a little more credible for me," he says quietly. So my word wasn't enough for him? I know I have no right to be offended. I could have very well been lying. After all, he's a billionaire. People like him get this all the time. But I'm angry that even hearing my mother's name wasn't enough to convince him. He has to read her note to even consider this to not be some sort of rip-off. Didn't he know her well enough to know she wouldn't claim something like this if it's a lie?

Lucinda leans forward in her desk and keeps her hands fused together in a ball in front of her. I've seen this before when she talks to whatever foster parent I have at the time. She means business now.

"What would you prefer to do now, Mr. Wayne?" she asks. Lucinda's 'business voice' is so different from the real her. In reality, she always sounds so kind and motherly. When she has meetings with my foster parents, she's always strict and formal, yet polite like she is now.

"What are my options?" he asks. The corners of my mouth twitch upwards into a near smile. So, he's not writing me off right away. Lucinda smiles. She's been waiting for this, too.

"You have a few options. You can choose to become Genevieve's foster parent, you can choose to become her legal guardian, you can choose to have DNA work done to prove your paternity as a start, or you can walk away. I strongly suggest either petitioning to become her legal guardian in order to ensure she won't be adopted in the future or having a paternity test done. You could do both if you want more proof. It's very possible."

"And how does the process of getting a paternity test go? How long does it take to get results?" He needs more proof. I guess that's understandable. It must be odd to hear that you have a child from a woman you dated fifteen years ago. A paternity test would provide some more peace of mind.

"We can buy a home kit at a drug store and send it in to a lab. You will get the results back in seven to twelve business days," Lucinda informs him. I want to scream at the top of my lungs in frustration. A few years ago, I wouldn't have held it in. How will I go back to Ms. Riley's house and explain to her that I'm waiting to hear paternity test results and that I might not be living with her for all that long? I can't wait seven to twelve business day! What does 'business days' even _mean_ anyway?

"Ms. Wexler, I risk overstepping my bounds here, but I have a friend in Gotham who I know for sure could get the results much faster." My head snaps up. He's actually suggesting bringing me to Gotham City. To his home. I barely know him, but I want to go with him. New Jersey holds so many bad memories for me that I would kill to get out of it, even if what he's suggesting goes against every rule the social services system probably has in place. I don't know if I will be staying there for long, but I want to go with him desperately. I'm going against the rule Mom told me about not following strangers anywhere, but I'd follow him if that means I'd get to leave this place.

Lucinda gets this look on her face that I can't really describe. She looks like she wants to let me leave with him as a friend, but as a social worker with a job that has strict regulations, she knows she cannot allow it.

"I'm not sure it's the most legal thing…" she trails off, seeming conflicted.

"Lucinda," I plead. The fact that I spoke surprises Lucinda and Mr. Wayne, who both look at me in shock. Even I'm surprised I somehow mustered up the courage to speak up in front of this man I don't even know.

I take a deep breath and think of Mom. She always believed in me. She wouldn't want me to be a nervous mess any longer.

"We both know that I will never be adopted," I speak honestly. "I've had my chance and I blew it a long time ago. Ms. Riley can barely tolerate me as is. I don't know for sure what this will become, but this could be my chance to finally do something about it. The foster system has never cared about what I have to say, even if it's my life. This is my chance to take control of my own life for the first time ever. Please, as a friend, let me take it."

She opens her mouth to speak, but shuts it again, glancing back and forth between Mr. Wayne and me. She's conflicted, I can tell, but she's leaning towards my side on the matter. The fact that I spoke so clearly and honestly in front of Mr. Wayne must have shocked her. I disregarded the fact that he's in the room. This discussion is between Lucinda and me. He has no involvement whatsoever, and I try my best to forget he's here so I won't get suddenly shy again.

Lucinda gives me a stern look, like a concerned mother, and points at me.

"You better text me as soon as you get there, as soon as you get the results, and as soon as you leave." A smile spreads across my face and I basically jump in my spot. I haven't been outside New Jersey in… well, ever! And now I get to travel to Gotham City with my father, who is actually giving me a chance despite everything. He could walk away right now and never have to see me again, yet he's choosing to get a DNA test, to go to all this trouble. He cares. He actually cares.

I like Mr. Wayne.

"Totally! I promise, I'll text you every hour if I have to." She grins at my happiness, but wags a stern finger at me.

"You best do that, Vieve!"

I wish I could just reach across the desk and give her a big hug, but I restrain myself. I don't want Mr. Wayne thinking I'm a weirdo. There's plenty of time for that, after all.

"Tell Ms. Riley I decided to go back to the group home," I say. "She won't care. And tell her… Tell her that you have some papers she can come in and sign next week. It'll buy me time."

Lucinda nods her head and then turns to look at Mr. Wayne.

"At the risk of overstepping _my _bounds, I promise that if you hurt her in any way, I will make you sorry you ever stepped into my office." I reward her with a broad smile. She once told me that if I were to (by some miracle) ever acquire a boyfriend, she would have to be meet him first so she could intimidate him like this. She's scarier than any father, in my opinion.

"You have my word, she's safe with me," he replies. Is it bad I believe him? I know, I just met him. I guess I, like many other people, have this overly-rosy view on parenthood. When I would imagine my father as a child, I would think of a dashing, charming man who would love me more than anything and protect me from the big, scary world. As I've gotten older, that fantasy has diminished considerably, but I guess I still can't stop naïvely believing I should feel safe around my father no matter what.

Besides, I guess I have to trust him now.

"In that case, I'm just going to put this document here in my filing cabinet. If you two just so _happen_ to walk out while I am doing that, then I guess it's not my responsibility." She shrugs in an over exaggerated manner and gives me a small wink before turning her back to us, giving us the signal to leave. I giggle a little. Real subtle, Lucinda.

Mr. Wayne looks at me with a crooked smile and extends his hand. I guess he expects me to take it. Oh crap, do I have to? Meeting him was one thing, but am I really ready for physical contact, something I despise? I take a sharp breath, telling myself not to be a sissy, and take his extended hand, standing up with him. His hand isn't sweaty and warm like I always envisioned a man's hand to be. It isn't even smooth like I thought a rich man's hand would be. It's warm enough, not sweaty, but calloused. It feels like he's done hard work. It doesn't at all match up with his supposed story.

I'm betting there's a lot of things about Bruce Wayne that I don't know.

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**A/N: Girl, you don't know the half of it!**

**Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, my lovelies! I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit long, but the next one is even longer. ;)**

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I release his hand as we walk outside Lucinda's office. I can't let go fast enough for me. He doesn't question it, and I'm grateful we're not having a conversation about it. Some people take offense with my desire to remain at a distance with them. It's not that I don't like them. I just don't like physical contact. It looks like he doesn't take offense, or he at least has the decency to remain silent about it. Either way, I hope we won't be having much physical contact in the future. I don't hate the guy. I don't even know him. I just don't like being touched. It makes me cringe and tense up. I can't stand it.

"I have a car parked out front. Do you have anything of yours you need to pick up before we leave?" I shake my head and point to my worn, brown leather bag that I always carry around. Pins with various sayings and logos are attached to it, adding character and showing what type of person I am.

"Everything I care about it right here." He raises his eyebrows and looks me up and down.

"What about clothes?" he asks. At first, I wonder if he's insinuating that my current clothing isn't satisfactory, and I'm torn between hiding my face and punching his. I put on my best clothes just for this meeting. I know it's probably less than what many other people could afford, but it's good for me. I think I look pretty damn good, thank you very much. Then I realize that he's referring to the fact that the only clothes I have are my ones on my body. How long will I even be in Gotham? I thought clothes for one day would be fine. He seems to have another idea.

"Well, I don't have all that much to begin with…" I trail off, unsure of what to say. He's rich. How will he understand that my old, loose-fitting clothes embarrass me? I don't know how to get him away from the issue so we don't have to have an embarrassing conversation about how I'm ashamed of myself and what I do and don't have. Luckily, he makes a wave with his hand to say the issue is settled.

"We'll just get you something when we get there." I smile gratefully. It feels a little forced and tight on my face, but I owe him at least a smile, right? After all, he's taking me out of this hell-hole. I'm not sure what Gotham is like, but it doesn't hold every bad memory I have inside its city limits. It won't make me swallow a lump in my throat and blink back tears every time I walk by a certain building or a certain spot from my childhood. I can be born again in Gotham. I don't have to carry around the stigma I have on my back now. I won't be The Girl Whose Step-Father Killed Her Mom. I can simply just be. For how long, though? I don't know.

I climb in the car after him and sit down on the plush, leather seat. The driver says nothing, and neither does Mr. Wayne, for that matter. The silence is thick and hard to swallow. I sit stiffly in my seat, wondering if I should say something to break the crippling tension. No, that's a bad idea. That would be much worse than the silence. When I say things, they always turn out to be awkward. It's best if I just keep my mouth shut this whole time.

The drive is a short one. Pretty soon, the car comes to a halt.

"We've arrived, Mr. Wayne," the driver says in a flat voice. Wow. He must love his job.

"Thank you," Mr. Wayne replies politely. Whether he's talking to Lucinda or the random driver, his voice is smooth like silk and charming. He reaches over and gives the driver cash before opening the door, gesturing for me to exit. I scurry out and look around. I see nothing. That is, until I turn around. A huge, luxurious jet sits, ready for departure. I've never seen something like this in my life. I've also never flown in my life. The thought makes my stomach churn in fear.

"T-That's yours?" Mr. Wayne looks at me and chuckles. It takes me a moment to realize I said this, not just thought it. He laughed, though. That's a good sign. I actually said something and didn't screw up my chances by doing so.

_That's a first, _I think sardonically.

I look back at Mr. Wayne and see him looking at me, waiting for me to step on to the jet. I look at the steps leading up to the entrance of the plane. It looks so intimidating. In minutes, we're going to be hundreds of feet above the ground, flying through the air in a device that could make a fatal mistake at any second. How do people like him do this so often? He jumped on a jet without a second thought to come meet me. He got on this thing and obviously has no problem with it. It can't be that bad…right? I just have to put one foot in front of the other and walk up the stairs. C'mon, Vieve, don't be a wimp…

Pretty soon, I'm standing in a lovely looking jet, my legs wobbling. I step in further, entering the area I think I'm supposed to relax in during the flight. The jet is so fancy, so nice looking, that I feel like I'm out of place. Standing here in my thrift store quality clothing and carrying a leather satchel almost as old as I am, I'm the imperfection in this jet. I don't feel like I'm good enough to be here. I don't even feel good enough to sit down in these cushioned chairs. What am I supposed to do? Stand the whole ride?

Mr. Wayne enters the plane from behind me and spots me standing like a lost little kid in the mall. He furrows his brows in confusion. Of course he doesn't understand. He has obviously never felt the way I do. He could never feel so out of place. He's rich. He could fit in anywhere he wanted. Me, on the other hand... I don't exactly belong in his world.

"Please, sit down," he tells me in a friendly tone. No matter how kind he is to me, I still feel nervous around him, but not in the traditional sense that he's the type of person who makes people nervous. I just don't want to mess this up. So, I reluctantly plant myself in a comfy chair next to a small table. It's easy to relax and recline in. In fact, it would be the perfect chair to fall asleep in. I can't wait to just find something comfy to lay in while I shut my eyes and don't think about being up in this plane.

Wait, is that impolite? I don't want him to think I'm blocking him out or that I think he's boring or anything like that. Will we even be talking? I'm not all that talkative. The man's a stranger to me! I have nothing to say to him.

He sits right across from me. Great. I don't think this could get even more awkward than it already is. He looks straight at me and I meet his eyes. Until now, we haven't really made eye contact. I avoid all forms of eye contact whenever humanly possible. He smiles slightly as a comforting gesture. I return it, but barely. I'm still worrying over being in the air soon. It's nerve wracking.

Pretty soon, I feel the thing start to move, rocking back and forth gently as the first motions start up. At first, I don't mind. It feels similar to a car ride on a bumpy road. Then it becomes not so gentle. I can feel the force pushing my body backwards as it rushes through the runway and up into the air. My ears pop, showing that we're now flying through the sky. I sigh. The worst part is done with, or so I've heard.

"How do you do this?" I ask Mr. Wayne. I feel a little proud of myself for not stuttering over my words like an idiot while speaking to him, but I'm still relatively quiet and my nerves are jumping around inside my stomach like frogs in a pond. I don't know whether it's from this ride or from having to speak to him. Either way, he smiles and laughs. I blink at him. Did I make a freaking joke?

"I don't do it all that often," he admits. "Even when I do, I guess I've just gotten used to it." I look down at my bag and clutch it tighter. We're in the air now, but I don't dare look outside the window I'm sitting next to. I'd rather not faint in front of Mr. Wayne. That would be a wonderfully embarrassing first impression. Instead, I flip open my bag and take out _The Fault in Our Stars_, which I have admittedly already read multiple times, but it never gets old to me. I feel like the author and characters understand me, as crazy as that sounds. I know I don't have cancer like the main characters of the book, and everyone has a loving family, but you'd have to live my life and then read the book to understand why I'm saying this.

I open to the first page, which I've memorized word for word by now, and begin to read…

* * *

"Genevieve?"

I snap up at the sound of my name in a mildly foreign voice. My grogginess and bleary eyes surprise me. Did I fall asleep without knowing it? Of course I did. I just had to fall asleep and seem like I'm lazy in front of my father! I'm definitely the 'sleep 'til noon' type of teenager. 3 in the afternoon is my record time, and I'm quite proud of it. Having to wake up early to get ready for the appointment along with barely being able to sleep the night before made me an exhausted mess when I woke up this morning. I've been running on stored up energy so far. It must have run out when I started to read and let myself get more comfortable.

"Yes?" I answer, wiping at my eyes. I'm still tired from my impromptu nap. It only made me groggy and slightly cranky instead of anywhere near well rested. I hate unexpected naps.

"We've arrived."

Now that gets my full attention. I sit up in my spot and open my eyes wide. Mr. Wayne is in front of me, his demeanor calm and relaxed, like this is just a walk in the park. Meanwhile, I'm anything but. I'm finally out of New Jersey! I'm in a new place for the very first time in my life. I'm in a place where no one knows me or my story. I could be anyone as far as they're concerned. No one would ever have to know me or my past. Hell, even Mr. Wayne doesn't know my story entirely. He's hasn't read my case file. I dread him finally doing so. When someone reads my case file, I consider myself as good as gone.

I sit up and stretch sleepily as I do. My hand accidentally bumps Mr. Wayne in the chest. As quickly as it hit him, I retract my hand. No awkward touches, Vieve. Avoid awkward touches. Mr. Wayne walks over to the entrance of the jet without another word to me. Oh, I guess I should follow, shouldn't I? Or at least, I think that's what he's trying to convey to me. I grab my book from the table and tenderly put it back in my bag, adjusting it so it won't get wrinkled. I'm very protective over my book. You know how the most beloved books look old and worn? That's a lie. The _most _beloved books are in perfect condition like mine.

I follow him down the steps that are somehow magically here. How long was I out for? We didn't just land, it seems. There's another car waiting for us, just as fancy as the last. I don't care that there's another drive I have to sit through in a painful silence. At least I survived my first plane ride without a single panic attack. I consider that to be a major accomplishment. For someone like me, that's nearly impossible. Someone give me an award!

When we reach the car, Mr. Wayne opens the door for me. He's quite the gentleman, isn't he? I wish he wouldn't be. Then maybe I'd feel like we're not as distant as we are. He treats me like he has to treat me nicely, like a guest in your home or an acquaintance. It's how I've always been treated by my foster parents. I wish someone would just treat me like you treat your kid. I'm done with this overly polite bullshit.

"Good to see you again, Master Wayne," the driver says in a British accent. _Master Wayne?_ I should have remembered Lucinda mentioning he has a butler. What rich man doesn't? And he's a British butler, no less. Hmm, even more classy. Well done, Mr. Wayne. Very well done.

"It's good to see you too, Alfred." I catalogue the name in my brain for future reference. The two seem to be kind of buddy-buddy from the way they smile at each other. I always thought that people with any sort of help would be as distant to them as possible. Maybe Alfred has been around for a while. Or maybe politeness is just in his job description.

"And this must be Miss Genevieve," he observes. I nod a little and murmur a terse hello to him. I don't want to come across as someone who's stuck up or thinks she's above him, but that's what people often assume about me due to my shyness. I really do wish I could talk to people normally like everyone else, but it's just too hard for me. Some people break out of their shell eventually, while I just burrow deeper and deeper into mine. Alfred doesn't press me any farther. Maybe he can sense I don't like to talk, or maybe he just doesn't care. Either way, I can tell I'm in for another silent car ride. Oh joy.

"Just head to Wayne Enterprises, Alfred. We need to see Fox." That must be the 'friend' who can get the results back fast. Mr. Wayne sure doesn't mince words. He wants to know immediately if I am actually his or not. That's understandable. Sure, I'm a smidge offended, but I can deal with it. I just can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes my mother was telling the truth and he actually is my biological father. He actually is responsible for me. It's not a crime to be excited that you have a living family member.

The silence I predicted turns out to be true. No one speaks on the way there. I look out the window, taking in the scenery of Gotham City. The landscape is quite varied, I'd say. I can see some quite nice buildings, but then a group of homeless people huddles together for warmth on the corners near these prosperous companies. One part of the city we pass will have a ritzy hotel, but then we'll pass a street filled with litter and people diving through the dumpster looking for food. That hardly seems fair to me. Why is there such a division of wealth here in Gotham City? Is there a reason why there seems to be a line drawn across the whole city, dividing the rich and the poor?

I look next to me and realize that my own father is one of the lucky ones here. And according to Lucinda, he's the lucki_est_ one here. They call him the 'Prince of Gotham'. I wrinkle my nose a bit in disgust. I've never known what it was like to be rich. Sure, Mom and I weren't poor, but we weren't well off like him. How can he stand living in a city like this, where he's above everyone? It's depressing to me.

"We've arrived," I hear Alfred say from the front seat. Mr. Wayne opens the door and gets out, keeping it open for me. There he goes again being overly polite with me. I swallow my pride and accept his gracious gesture, getting out the car as he holds the door for me. Behind us stands a giant building with the logo 'Wayne Enterprises' on it in big, bold lettering. It stands out, like the crown jewel of this city. Just like they call Mr. Wayne. For the first time, I wonder more about my extended family. Did my father's father found this? My father's grandfather? If I was a central part of my father's life, would there be a chance that this company would be passed down to me?

There's no use speculating when I don't even know whether or not Mr. Wayne will keep me around. I don't want to get my hopes up only for them to get crushed like always. We walk into the grand building, which looks exactly the same on the inside as I expected it to. It's just a business, but it's also very polished and fancy. I'm just as out of place here as I was on Mr. Wayne's jet. I'm the one here without nice clothes or a sophisticated air. It's just me, plain ole' Vieve.

We walk into the elevator together, exchanging no words. We don't even exchange so much as a glance. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, like he's contemplating something. I look at him discretely and wonder what he thinks about this arrangement. He must be a bit disappointed that he didn't get a cooler kid. Instead, he got saddled with me, a socially awkward teenage girl who barely speaks. If I was him, I'd be less than happy.

The elevator suddenly stops, and I jump a little at the feeling. I hate when elevators come to a stop. It makes my stomach jump like my intestines are performing in the Olympics. Any sort of traveling, be it an elevator and now a plane, makes me vaguely nauseous. The door opens to reveal a large laboratory of sorts. It must be in the lower levels of the building. There are no windows or light streaming in from anything besides the light coming from the ceiling. Who the hell would want to work down here?

"Fox!" he shouts into the seemingly empty space. I look around at some of the attractions in this weird space. I spot some devices that I cannot name, a lot of large filing cabinets, and some desks. Someone works down here. I would say many people do, but it seems so deserted, so dead-end that there can't be more than one person here. Poor guy.

A man pops out from what seems to be nowhere and smiles when he sees Mr. Wayne standing with me near the elevator. Something about him seems to be very grandparent-like and comforting. Then again, I've never had a grandparent. I sure wish I did, though.

"You made it back quicker than I expected," he remarks. Then he looks down at me. "And I see you were somehow able to bring her here without any legal repercussions." I blush and look at the ground. I'm the reason there were no consequences for him taking me out of New Jersey. Maybe I should feel guilty that I put Lucinda in that position. At the moment, I feel no guilt at all. The only guilt I still have is opening the note when Mom made it clear it was to be opened when I turned eighteen.

"Now, dear, if you'll just follow me, we'll get the DNA test results back in no time." He has a kind voice and a kind face that puts my somewhat frayed nerves at ease. I follow him without any hesitation. That's out of character for me to say I'd follow him without hesitation, but I want these results back as badly as Mr. Wayne seems to. Not because I doubt he's my father; I'm sure he is. My mother was not a liar. I just want to make sure _he_ has no doubts he's my father. I want Mom's word to be vindicated.

Fox, as I assume his name is, stops me at what looks to be a chemistry set with a large computer in the back of it. I know it's not a chemistry set, but it looks like it. With all the test tubes and beakers lying around, it looks like my 8th grade science class did on experiment day. Fox pulls out some cotton swabs and puts on his latex gloves.

"Now, please open your mouths," he orders both of us. I obediently comply. He takes a sample from both of us and goes to work in his little lab.

"This will take a little while. Just relax while I get the results back."

I take his advice and find a chair to sit down in. It's not very comfy, but it'll do for now. Pulling out my book again, I pick up where I last remember reading before I passed out on the plane. I didn't get very far, but I've read this enough to quote it, so it doesn't matter.

I hear the sound of the chair next to me creaking as weight is added to it. It must be Mr. Wayne, who took Fox's advice on waiting for the results like I did. I concentrate on my book again and silently pray he doesn't talk to me. I only want to finish my book for the hundredth time like the little nerd I am. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want this to become awkward when things were going perfectly fine.

"So… Can I ask you a few questions?"

Dammit!

I snap my book shut and look at him. I hope the annoyance doesn't show through in my eyes. I really am grateful, but can't he understand that I prefer to be alone? I think I've made that perfectly clear earlier.

"Why?" I ask him a bit defensively.

"If you're my kid, I think it's a little weird I don't know anything about you." I shrug. His motives are clear enough. My defensiveness is wiped away quickly and I give a curt nod.

"Shoot," I invite him. He smiles at me. It's a warm smile that puts me off my guard just a bit. I don't return it, though. This time, it isn't at all hard. I'm slowly learning how to harden around him like I do to everyone else.

"What's your middle name?"

"Iris."

"When's your birthday?"

"November 30th."

"How old are you"

"Fifteen." I narrow my eyes at him. Can't he do simple math and figure it out himself?

"What's your favorite color?"

"Green."

"Where were you born?"

"Princeton, New Jersey."

"What's in that bag?"

How the hell did he flip this question game into an interrogation so quickly?

"Personal items. You know, letters, old photos and some other assorted things I collected over the years…" He nods, but his eyes are still on my beat up looking bag. I hate his suspicion. What did I do to deserve it? I've done nothing to him! I pick up my book and open it up again, signaling to him that this conversation is done and I refuse to answer any more damn questions he comes up with.

* * *

"Results are in!" Fox yells from his desk across the room. I set my book back in my bag and promise myself I'll get back to it later. Finally! I feel like we've been waiting for hours. I'm almost at the end of my book yet again. I jump up with my book clutched underneath my arm and walk over to Fox's desk. Mr. Wayne is right behind me. For the first time since I've met him, his calm demeanor is gone, exchanged for a nervous and jumpy one. He has a right to be nervous. He's about to get some big, big news.

"Well?" Mr. Wayne asks. Fox hands him a paper with a lot of numbers on it. I consider myself intelligent – or so I'd like to think – and I have no idea what any of those mean. If the look on his face is any indication, neither does Mr. Wayne. He stares at it and then looks at Fox, as if to say 'help me out here.'

"Congratulations," Fox says with a bit of a smirk on his face. "It's a girl."

* * *

**A/N: So there you have it! Even though you all probably already knew, it's official. Bruce Wayne is a baby daddy! Thank you for reading, and I hope you get around to reviewing and favoriting and following and stuff of that nature.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm a busy, busy girl lately! Ugh, with the new term starting in school and all the crap they decided to load on us towards the end just 'cuz, it's hard to even have any time to visit FanFiction, much less post on it. If I'm usually a reader of your stories or planned on reading one of your stories and I have yet to do that, please have patience. I'm hoping everything ends up okay in the end and that I won't be given an ungodly amount of work at the beginning of the new term.**

**Now, this chapter is pretty long, but it had to be because I made a bet with a friend of mine. :) And, by the way, if cursing offends you, I apologize in advance. Just so you know, I'm not big on cursing in actuality, but there will be some of it in this story.**

* * *

I watch as all the color drains from Mr. Wayne's face slowly, almost comically, until he's whiter than any ghost could ever be. He looks like he's going to pass out at any second from the shock. His legs start to wobble slightly. For a second, I almost stick my arms out to catch him in case he collapses. Then I think better of it. I'm way too small to catch him.

"Are you alright?" I manage to ask. If he heard me, he doesn't acknowledge it. He's staring straight ahead, past both me and Fox. His eyes are just fixed on the wall ahead of him. I can't gauge any emotion of his except one; shock. He seems so shocked that I'm almost positive he thought before that there was no way I was his. How can he read my mother's note and still think that my story is all a lie? I'm glad he got this devastating shock. It serves him right for not believing me, for not believing my mom.

Eventually, he nods weakly to show he heard me.

"Yeah… Yeah, I'm, um, I'm alright, I guess…" He puts his hand on Fox's shoulder. "Thanks…" Before I can properly react, Mr. Wayne grabs my hand and starts to walk away from the lab, dragging me along me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that I don't like touching people, but he still just goes ahead and grabs my wrist without asking me or giving me time to react.

He walks us into the elevator and jabs the button to go up to the main floor. His hand is still shaking just a bit. Is it really all that shocking? I knew he was my father the minute I read his name on Mom's letter. Apparently, he never trusted her the way I did and still do. As the elevator goes up, I can't help but stare straight at him. He seems to be calming down considerably. He's no longer a deathly shade of pale and he's not wobbling so much anymore. He's forcing that calm, cool, collected look back onto his face. Is this who he is? Or is it all just some mask his puts on?

As soon as the door opens, he rushes out and towards the exit. I scurry along to keep up with him as he heads out of the building and towards the car we came here in. In his flustered state, he's still able to remember to open the car door for me. Really?! I sigh and jump in, buckling up before he gets in after me. He stares at the headrest in front of him for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought.

"I can see the results were as expected," Alfred remarks sardonically. I grin. I think I might end up liking this butler of his. Now I just have to work on my father a bit more…

"Just head back to the manor," Mr. Wayne orders. He sounds like he's tired. He's not the only one. I'm just now realizing how exhausted I am. I hope that when we get to his home, or 'manor' as he called it, I'll be allowed to sleep. Today's been the craziest day of my life so far, and I doubt any day could ever rival this. I can't wait to tell Lucinda.

Oh. Shit.

I forgot to text her when I got here! I didn't text her when I got the results either. I dig my hand into my bag and grab my phone, praying there are no missed texts or calls. When I turn it on, I'm relieved to find no one has tried to reach me. I go to Lucinda's contact information – the only contact on here – and start to formulate the best possible text that could get me out of trouble.

_Hey! We've been here for a bit. Results came back positive. Going back to his house now. I'll call you later. ~Vieve_

I click send and flip my keyboard back in place. My phone really is a piece of crap, but I refused to let Lucinda spend too much money on me. I pitched in with the money I started to collect when I started babysitting three years ago. Believe it or not, I actually accumulated quite the wad of cash, which I kept tucked in a sock in my bag. When you have no social events to go to on the weekends like me, your schedule is constantly open. This is all the two of us could afford together.

My pocket starts to loudly play 'Raiders March', the theme song from Indiana Jones. Mr. Wayne turns to me and raises his eyebrows. This is the usual reaction to my ringtone when I forget to turn it on vibrate. I blush and turn it back on, clicking on the message Lucinda sent me:

_If you don't call me within the next hour, I swear to god, I'm calling 9-1-1! I'll have a swat team on Wayne's ass quicker than he can say your name! And I mean nickname, because your real name takes a pretty damn long time to say._

I smirk. Genevieve Iris Bancroft is a mouthful, isn't it? If anyone else said this, I'd be containing anger. With Lucinda, I don't mind at all. In fact, I actually think it's funny. I text Lucinda back quickly before she can follow through with her threat, and believe me, she will.

_Calm down! I'm fine. He hasn't chopped my head off with an axe or thrown a chainsaw on me (yet). He's in too much shock to do anything but stare aimlessly. Call you later, I promise! ~Vieve_

I snap my phone shut quickly and stuff it back into my bag. Leaning back into the seat, I think about everything that has happened in the past few weeks. I've had no adjustment period. Who has so many life changes in a few weeks' time? I don't feel like this is my life. I feel like it's some sort of movie that I'm watching from the sidelines. This is so surreal. It's not me. It can't be me.

I'm never this lucky.

* * *

When you were young, were you ever carried into your room by your parent after falling asleep on the sofa or some other random place in your house? Did you experience that moment of confusion and sometimes sheer panic as you realized that you were not where you remembered being, only to realize you were in your own warm bed in your own room?

Now imagine that initial feeling, except imagine it isn't your room you find yourself in. Imagine that you woke up to a strange, large room in a big, comfy bed with your shoes and socks removed, but your other clothing oddly undisturbed. Let me assure you, the panic is times ten.

How the hell did I get here? What's the last thing I remember before waking up in this bed?

I jump out of the warm, silky bed and find fresh clothes laid out on the sheets, like they're placed there just for me. I reach my hand out in the darkness of the draped room, and find that this material feels familiar. It's very familiar, and for a reason. These are my clothes.

The events of yesterday come rushing back suddenly, like a ton of bricks just hit me in the face. I'm in Mr. Wayne's mansion. I fell asleep in the car, just like I did on the plane. Someone, probably Mr. Wayne, carried me here while I slept like a baby. I feel like such an idiot. How did I not realize that when I woke up this morning? I was so convinced I was in some sort of danger and in a foreign place that I forgot all about meeting my freaking birth father yesterday. I'm such a moron. But, one question still stands.

How did clothes I didn't bring to Gotham magically appear in the room I'm in?

I get changed as quickly as possible and run out the door. I'm shocked and awed by the outside of the room as much as I am by the inside. This place is _huge_! There are so many doors that I feel like I would get lost for a week if I attempted to find a bathroom. How will I ever find my way around this place? Luckily, it looks like I'm right by the main staircase. I walk down it, spurred on by the smell of food wafting by my nose. When did I eat last? I can't even remember. It was sometime yesterday morning. I just follow the scent like a wolf, nearly drooling from the mere thought of food at this point.

I'm able to find my way to the kitchen based solely on my sense of smell. Voices emanate from the room. I stay back against the wall near the arch and… listen in a bit. Okay, I eavesdrop on the conversation taking place. I'm not a bad person just because I happen to hear some conversations now and then. I've just gotten remarkably good at it by now. It's a force of habit.

"Thanks for bringing the papers here," Mr. Wayne's voice says.

"Not a problem!" I know that cheery voice. I've known it for years. It's Lucinda! She really sticks to her threats, doesn't she? I smile and resist the urge to barge in right now and run up to her. I wonder what these papers could be? _Adoption papers _maybe? I'm his actual daughter. There's no denying that now. He took me back to his home. He took the time, something no one has ever done before. Why wouldn't he adopt me?

"You can keep her around as your foster child for as long as she's a minor. I suggest adopting her in the future, but that's your choice."

My heart sinks. He's not adopting me. He's only taking me in as a guest. I'm replaceable and easy to get rid of. It doesn't matter that I'm his own flesh and blood. He sees me as optional, just like everyone else who's taken me in. He's no different from any of my other homes in the least.

My blood boils. I go from heartbroken to pissed off in seconds. How could he come all the way to New Jersey to get me, bring me here, raise my hopes, and then dash them by fostering me like he isn't sure about me? Does he even _know _how many foster parents I've had? He hasn't, of course. That's in my case file.

Oh shit! My file!

Lucinda is required to show him my file before he decides to foster me. And, if he's signing the papers, that means she completed that portion of the job. He saw everything. He saw my label as a troubled youth and how I had anger issues badly. He knows that I'm a high risk case. Once again, I've dashed my own hopes of ever getting adopted. Ever.

I rush back to the stairs and make sure to make noise this time so my presence is announced before I walk into the room. All conversation is ceased when I enter the kitchen, like I have some sort of deadly disease and I should be quarantined. I hate the attention on me. The papers and manila envelope sit glaringly on the mahogany table. If I could tear my case file to shreds, I would. Well, right before I burned it. I have to act surprised that Lucinda is here. The smile on my face is not faked as I throw my arms open wide.

"Lucinda!" I exclaim.

"Vieve!" she replies in a friendly mocking tone. I run at her and hug her with all my might. See, I'm not _totally _weird. I can handle physical contact sometimes. Only certain times, though.

"What are you doing here?" I ask as I let go. She shrugs casually.

"Eh, you know, signing some boring papers, dropping off your clothes. And _now_, young lady, I'm going to take you to school." I tilt my head. School? But I just got here. And besides, I'm fairly sure he's not my foster parent yet. I don't think this is allowed. I'm still technically enrolled in my school back in New Jersey, and he doesn't have the right to enroll me in a new one, and especially not so quickly.

Unless, of course, both him and Lucinda pulled some strings to get this to happen.

"How many laws have we broken since this started?" I ask reprovingly. Lucinda pretends to think a while and then counts on her fingers.

"Well, um, let's see. That's about… two, maybe three or four. But these are things you can get away with when your future foster parent is the richest man in Gotham. Now let's get a move on! We don't want you to be late for your first day at Gotham Academy."

The very name of my apparent new school scares me. It sounds fancy, like one of those ultra-strict boarding schools with nuns who smack your knuckles with rulers. I know it's not a boarding school, but I still wish I could just stay here and explore. Lucinda grabs my wrist and starts pulling me towards the door while grabbing my shoes by the rug and some toast from the counter for the trip. I look back, straight at my father, just to see if there's any emotion in his eyes. I want to see some happiness over the fact that I'm with him, or maybe some sadness that I have to leave so soon after I came to him.

I find nothing. He's not even looking up at me. So much for a goodbye.

* * *

"But Lucinda!" I whine like a petulant child. "Do you _have_ to go back to New Jersey?" She gives me a reproving sigh and nods her head sadly. She crosses her arms over her white blouse and stands up a little straighter in her place.

"Did you forget I have a job to keep, Vieve? Gotham is a really interesting city, if nothing else, but I don't have a life here. You, on the other hand…" She gives me a hopeful look, the one I get from her every time she has to hand me off to a new family. It's full of so much hope and excitement. She sees a future for me that I can't see myself. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses, while I see it as the cold, cruel place it is. I know Lucinda is only looking out for my best interests like always, but I still glare at her and raise a hand to stop her before she says anything more.

"Don't start with that, Lucinda. He's barely spoken one word to me since I got here. He only signed the foster papers, not the legal adoption papers. He's only keeping me around because he feels bad for me, and I doubt he wants to be labeled a deadbeat dad. I don't know if I have a life here yet, or it I ever will." She sighs and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.

"At least try to make some new friends today, alright? For me?"

She knows as well as I that when I try to make friends in a new school, I always end up being labeled the freak with anger issues. One time a Barbie lookalike girl started taunting me about the fact that I was living in a foster family. I tried to ignore her, but after she made a teasing remark about my 'dead mommy', I couldn't hold my rage in anymore. I punched her in her obviously worked-on nose, feeling the bone crack underneath my fist. Why not? All she had to do was get yet another nose job and viola, good as new. Needless to say, that foster family didn't keep around for long.

But still, I'll try because I know that Lucinda wants me to. And I know Mom would have too if she could see my only friend is 30+.

"I promise. Bye, Lucinda. I'll text you every day." She smiles sadly. This might be our last goodbye, after all. We've never been apart since I met her when I was eleven.

"If you don't, I'm coming back here just to kick your ass." I laugh as she jogs away to her car. I know Lucinda, and I know she means it.

"Bye, V!" she calls from over her shoulder. I wave until she's out of sight, feeling some part of my heart being ripped away with her. There goes my only friend and confidant, going back to New Jersey while I'm here in Gotham City with no one to turn to. Even my biological father barely speaks to me. Wonderful, now I'm back to being a friendless loser.

"V?"

I whirl around. Who could be calling me that?

Before I know what's happening, some boys are forming a ring around me. They all look basically the same; tall, intimidating, dressed in black, and wearing pants that sag slightly. I frown. Sagging pants are the classic sign of a douchebag in my mind. And I'm surrounded by them. I look around the circle for some way out, any way at all that I could break through and make a run for the entrance of the school. None. I'm trapped in this ring of boys who are staring me down like I'm a bug underneath their shoes.

"Look at that dumb, twinkly look in her eyes!" one of them jeers in delight. "She's gotta be a prude." My fists clench. So, not opening my legs for random people I barely know when I'm only fifteen makes me a 'prude'? I think it means I have a little thing called 'self-respect'. It's a rare phenomenon nowadays, and they seem to think it's extinct and that being a prude is some sort of disease. Well, I'd rather have this disease than, say, _herpes_ maybe?

"V hasn't lost her v-card!" another one taunts. I glare up at him with rage simmering in my eyes. My 'v-card'? That's sure as hell classy. I once again look around, trying to find some sort of opening. They're standing shoulder-to-shoulder, leaving no space I can get out through. I just have to wait it out as they hurl insults at me. I'm used to that much, at least.

"She ain't bad looking," one of them observes. I scoff. It's so kind of him to notice. I'm so deeply honored to have such a compliment bestowed upon me by such a fine young man. It's the same idiot who spoke up the first time, calling me a prude. He gets an evil, almost maniacal grin on his face, inching closer to me. The claustrophobia starts to set in. I feel like they're all getting closer to me.

"I could always take your v-card off your hands for you, _V_." I back up from his body. The rage is quickly melting into fear. I finally realize how bad of a situation I'm in. No one else is out here. We're out in the parking lot, far from the actual school. There's no one to help me if I scream for help. I have a long way to run if I actually do get to break free. I'm alone to defend myself, and I'm not stupid enough to believe I can fight them off single-handedly.

"No," I answer. I try to do it firmly, but it comes out shaky and weak. They just laugh at me. It sounds cruel and sharp to my ears, and my fear only spikes up.

_I gotta get out of here_, I think in sheer panic.

"I'm sure I can change your mind," the same boy says arrogantly. He steps forward and grabs my wrist like he has all the right in the world to. My body stiffens at the contact. He's touching me. I don't let _anyone_ touch me. Not since my step-father. I barely even get too close to Lucinda.

I start pulling my wrist towards me, jerking it in all directions, trying to get him to let me go. His grip tightens and he twists, causing a burning pain to shoot through my wrist and upwards through my arm. My mouth forms a slight whimper. Everything seems to become a bit blurrier.

_"You're always treating me like I'm not good enough! You don't act like a dad should!"_

_His face turns red in anger. His whole body shakes with it. I'm pretty sure he has stopped breathing because of the color of his face. I reminds me of a tomato, so red and vaguely shiny._

_Wait, why is his shaky hand raising like that? He looks so incredibly angry. And why is it coming towards my face…?_

"LET ME GO!" I shout. I'm not angry anymore. I'm just scared out of my mind. I don't want to feel them smack me across the face. I don't want to be transported back to that time in my life. The boy grabs my  
shoulders roughly and pushes me back. I fall onto one of the other boys who grabs me around my waist as I squirm and thrash around.

"Hold her!" one of them commands the boy who has me in his grip. I desperately try to escape from his firm hold on me. This can't be it! I have to be able to find some way out of this!

"Yo! Assholes!"

The boy holding me lets me drop. I fall on the gravel with an ungraceful thud and I try to slide myself away from the boy. My entire body is shaking from fear and adrenaline. They both pump through my veins so fast I think I could burst at any moment. The two boys in front of me separate. Now is my chance to run. I can finally get away while they're distracted. My body, however, won't let me. It's like I'm super-glued to the ground. No amount of screaming at myself internally will move my stubborn, shaking body off the pavement. Right now, I really am as pathetic as my step-father always said I was.

A girl stands near me, looking at the boys with her arms crossed over her chest angrily. She's just as tall of them, meaning she is much taller than little me. Her long, impossibly curly, sandy-blonde hair is in a high ponytail that is still swinging slightly from her jogging over here. She's wearing a leather jacket over a plaid shirt, dark skinny jeans, and combat boots. To any passerby she would be just as intimidating as the boys, yet I'm not afraid of her. Her presence makes me feel relieved. I feel like I'm safe.

"What the hell are you doing, Dylan?" she asks the boy who offered to 'take my v-card'. He gives her an annoyed glare, like someone would give a younger sister who barged into their room without asking. The two know each other, and he doesn't seem to like her all that much.

"Stay out of this," he growls lowly. She gets closer, taking one of her fists and hitting it into her other palm.

"No, I won't stay out of this. You leave this poor girl alone or I will tell _everyone_ about the time last year when I kicked your ass to kingdom come."

The boys that were once on his side are now roaring in laughter and slapping him on the shoulder.

"You got beat up by a girl?" one of them asks between laughs. Even I have to smile just a little bit at that. This big, bad boy who's trying to rough _me_ up got roughed up by _her_? Maybe he isn't as big and bad as he likes to pretend.

"She got lucky!" he hisses at his so-called 'friends'. Then he wheels around and faces the girl. His face is flushed red in embarrassment, and he stutters to find words. Usually, I'm the one who's tongue tied around people. It's nice to see someone else being in that position instead of me.

"You wouldn't," is all he is able to say. She smirks and raises her eyebrows. Oh, she wouldn't? Because the look on her face says different.

"You never know," she teases. "Stories tend to get lost in translation sometimes. Maybe someone will _accidentally_ overhear that you cried for your mommy when I punched you in the face."

I laugh out loud. I just can't help myself. The ridiculous turn this situation has taken amuses me to no end. When they all turn to look at me – well, glare is more like it – I clap my hand over my mouth. The girl gives me a small smile, like she approves. I smile back. The fact that I'm smiling at this girl is surprising. I'm too shy to smile at anyone except Lucinda, and Mr. Wayne once or twice.

"Scram, Dylan," she hisses at him. "And take your douchebag friends with you."

He grumbles some various profanities at her before he makes the signal for his mindless posse to follow him to another end of the parking lot. Typical 'bad boys'. They're skipping school…

SCHOOL!

I'm gonna be late for school at this rate. Mr. Wayne is going to be so pissed off. He lets me into his home and how will I repay him? With a robo call at 6 a.m. saying 'Miss Bancroft was not in school yesterday'. I can't afford to anger my father after being here for such a little amount of time. What if he sends me back?

I jump up off the pavement and brush the dirt off my jeans. Then I turn to face my savior. She's looking at with her arms still crossed. I wonder how to approach this. It's not every day a random girl you've never met saves you from perverted teenage boys. Besides, in case no one has picked up on this yet, I am not a genius at social interactions. I guess I should just thank her and be on my way. That's courteous, right?

"Um, t-thank you for, you know, for saving me back there and all, I…" I trail off when I see she's smirking. She's actually _smirking_ at my awkward nature and how much I stumble or something as simple as a thank you. I feel the ire rise in me yet again. The ever so familiar feeling of anger is coming back.

"Hon, you don't have to thank me. I would want someone to do the same for me." The anger dulls a bit. She's not about to tease me like most of my schoolmates have done throughout my life. I guess I'm so used to it that I assumed she was going to give me a hard time.

"Of course," she continues. "I'm a black-belt, so I doubt I would have gotten in that situation to begin with." Usually, this would once again trigger my anger and I would scream at her or just slug her in the face like I've done before, but the friendly grin on her face changes my mind. The whole situation comes back to me. I realize for once how weird this all is, especially for someone like me. Instead of getting angry, I dissolve into a fit of giggles. I laugh so hard that I have to clutch my stomach and bend over. Tears come to my eyes, and I have trouble gasping to find breath. For some reason, that makes me laugh more. I look up, still laughing, and see her looking at me oddly. That only makes me laugh harder. Hey, I never said I was a rational person!

The look of confusion on her face cracks into a full-blown smile. Pretty soon, she has joined me in laughing like a maniac. How do we look, both of us having laughing attacks in the school parking lot? Eh, what do I care! She flings an arm around my shoulder, which is hard to do, considering the fact that I'm 5'3 and she's probably around 5'9, maybe a few inches taller.

We both calm down eventually, but my ribs still hurt from laughing so much. I'm barely managing to catch my breath when she sticks her hand out to me.

"My name is Blake Demonte," she says, sounding slightly breathless herself. "What's yours, new girl?"

When I meet new people, I always introduce myself as Genevieve. No matter how much I despise my formal, French-sounding name, only Lucinda has gained the place in my life to make the name 'Vieve' sound right. When I think of the way it slipped off Mom's lips every time she came home from work or gathered me up in a hug or greeted me when I came home from school, I can't imagine it being spoken by someone who doesn't hold a place in my heart like Mom or Lucinda.

That why I nearly smack myself when I stare Blake dead in the eye and say, "My name is Vieve Bancroft."

Why the hell did I do that? I trusted this girl with a part of my identity that only two people still living know about. I barely know her!

But, she did save me from those boys back there. And there must be some reason why I trusted her so quickly. This was no slip of the tongue. I've never done that before. For some reason, I like her. I know, I actually like a person. Shocking, right? She doesn't annoy me or make me so angry I could rip her head right off her body.

She gives a big, 100-watt smile and offers me her hand again. I almost flat out refuse, but then I remember how I let put her arm around my neck earlier. That barrier of mine has already been crossed, and I didn't protest. What's the harm now? I take it and she shakes my hand to seal the deal on our official first meeting.

"I'll show you around Gotham Academy," she offers as we walk to the front entrance. "It's not as scary as it looks." She then look off in the distance and her face crinkles, like she's suddenly remembering something unpleasant.

"Well…" she begins. "It's not that scary if you take out all the drug dealers, children of crime lords, and future murderers and rapists. Without all that stuff, it's actually pretty cool." Well, geeze, that's so comforting to hear about the school I'll be attending until further notice. I just have to steer clear of those future rapists next time and I think I'll be fine.

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**A/N: Blake is heavily, heavily, HEAVILY based off of a friend of mine. The friend I made the already mentioned bet with. ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Okay, this one is shorter than the others, but maybe that's a good thing. :) I may own Blake Demonte, but my best friend is part owner I guess. I mean, I have to give her SOME credit. I did steal her appearance, style, attitude, mannerisms, and complete personality for the character of Blake. Yeah, I guess I'll give her a little credit. ;) Anyway, if you enjoy this chapter, feel free to review! Tell me what you like about it, what worked and anything you'd like to see in the future. Feel free to press one of those buttons down there...**

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"So, what class do you have first?" Blake asks. I take my balled up schedule that Lucinda shoved at me out of my pocket and unroll it, smoothing it out so I can see it clearly. I still have no idea how Lucinda and Mr. Wayne were able to manage getting me in here at such short notice.

"Um, it looks like I have Science with Mr. Gard…" She scoffs.

"So do I. He's a sucky teacher and you'll never, ever get any of your assignments back, but you don't have to do much work. I just spend that class talking with some of the band kids and wondering what the hell he's trying to teach us."

I smile and continue to walk with her as we approach one of the long hallways of the school. She walks confidentially, like she knows no one will be stupid enough mess with her, but at the same time, she isn't at all cocky. She doesn't act like she owns this school. She knows her way around the school, sure, but she's not a stuck-up popular chick. She's just very intimidating. First of all, she's pretty tall and not at all stick-thin and gawky like some tall people, and her sharp, teasing words outside show that she knows when to be a bitch. Her kindness to me shows that she can turn it down when she wants to. I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like her in my life. High school students seem to be so quick to try finding somewhere to fit in. They need to be a nerd or a prep or an athlete. They must fit in somewhere or they're doomed to walk the halls as a lonely outcast. She doesn't seem to give a damn about all that. She's confident in who she is and doesn't care about being on the top. Being someone that has never really fit in anywhere at the schools I attend for a short amount of time, I admire her.

"He won't care that we're late," she says. "He barely even notices if you do show up. The man has problems, I swear. Also, in case you didn't know already, it's casual day. Otherwise, we'd all be in uniforms." I cringe. Uniforms? Great, now I'm going to some fancy prep school that I'll have to wear a skirt at. A _skirt_. That's just wonderful. Me, in a skirt. Ugh!

She walks into the classroom and I trail behind. Sure enough, a middle-aged man sits at his desk on his computer, giving his young and wild students free reign of the classroom. Some toss notes to each other, some sit in little groups to chat, and some even have their phones pulled out and are playing Candy Crush with each other. I roll my eyes. Some people really have nothing more productive to do.

The teacher – Mr. Gard – raises his head from his laptop and looks at us in the doorway. I shrink in my spot under his gaze. Getting in trouble on my first day of school? That would be just great! Now I just need to get back to the manor and pack my things for my trip back to New Jersey!

"Where were you, Miss Demonte?" he asks casually. He doesn't even seem to care that a student of his is at least 10 or 20 minutes late to class. In some of the schools I've been to, that's enough to get you sent to the front office. Of all the jobs in the world, he chose the wrong one. Blake puts on her best 'respectful face', as I decide to call it. It's so fake to any teenager looking at it, but most any adult would just see her as eager to please.

"I was just making sure our newest student made it here okay," she answers. She dislikes him. I can tell that here is hidden contempt in her tone. It's something that I hide in my tone at times too. I'm just much worse at it than she is. I'm much more open about my hatred. Man, she really can flip a bitch switch, can't she?

I decide at this moment that I actually really like Blake Demonte.

Mr. Gard smiles and gestures to an empty seat near the back of the class, near a randomly placed hamster tank. Charming.

"Take a seat, Miss Bancroft. I heard you were going to be joining us today." I give him a small, very forced smile and nod, scuttling off to the seat he pointed to. Thankfully, as soon as he lets me take my seat, all the eyes that were on me glance somewhere else. I hate when people attract any sort of attention to me. Doesn't everyone have better things to do than look at me for no freaking reason?

Blake follows and sits herself down in the chair next to mine. The people surrounding us must be the 'band kids' she mentioned she likes to talk to. That explains the matching blue wind-breaker type jackets they all wear. The sit closely together. No one else is conversing with them, and it looks like they like it that way. They all are only speaking to each other in their small circle. I doubt I would be allowed in. It's like a little cult.

Well, I guess it's official. I'm in hell.

Blake elbows me in the side and pulls out a Nook. Turning it on, she grabs a pair of ear buds and offers me one. I take it and shove it in my ear as she starts to crank up the tunes. I immediately recognize the song as _The Phoenix_ by Fall Out Boy.

Oh. My God. Were the two of us twins separated at birth or something?

I secretly rock out to it every chance I get. Fall Out Boy is definitely one of my favorite bands. I like the loud, in your face, 'could make someone deaf' music, but as soon as it ventures over into heavy metal/screamo territory, I can't handle it anymore. It has to still make sense.

I give Blake a thumbs up to show I approve, but she can't see me. She's too busy shutting her eyes and mouthing the lyrics with a grin on her face the song to notice me. I grin a little and follow her lead, moving my lips to the lyrics of the song while dancing around in my spot.

_Hey young blood_

_Doesn't it feel_

_Like our time is running out?_

_I'm gonna change you_

_Like a remix_

_And then I'll raise you_

_Like a phoenix_

My head bobs back and forth to the beat while the two of us rock out like idiots to the catchy song, singing the lyrics in our mind and mouthing them quietly.

_Wearing our vintage misery_

_No, I think it looked a little better on me_

_I'm gonna change you_

_Like a remix_

_Then I'll raise you_

_Like a phoenix_

Blake opens her eyes and gives me a smirk. I'm letting go, letting my guard down and having fun. The look on her face makes it seem like making me comfortable was her plan from the beginning. When she raises her hand up, I don't hesitate in giving her a high-five. She laughs, which I can hear even with the music on. I can already tell she's the loud type. She won't hold back her laugh at all.

After the song ends, she pauses the music and takes out her ear bud. I do too, even though I really wish I could have heard her next song. I have a feeling I would approve of her entire collection. She's not the prissy, pop type of girl. You can tell that by taking one look at her.

The static from above signals an announcement coming over the loud speaker. All of us look up and wait for someone to say something. I'm just hoping this doesn't negatively affect my first day. I don't even want to be here in the first place, for god's sake!

"All freshman classes please report to the auditorium," the pleasant sounding woman announces. Blake looks at me and shrugs.

"I didn't know we had a lecture today," she offers. "I usually throw out the slips they give us." I smirk, knowing that I would probably do the same had I been given one. I'm a good student, but it seems they're bent on giving out more papers than any teenager can handle. She's more like me than I thought.

Everyone stands up and floods out into the hallway. Blake and I are last in the line of kids. She shoves her Nook into her black backpack and puts it on one shoulder before she grabs my arm and pulls me along.

"C'mon!" she urges. "I do NOT want to be stuck behind those assholes who hog the middle section." How many total idiots and jerks am I going to run into today? Even worse, I have to attend this school now. How the hell will I deal with it? For such a nice, fancy prep school, it's pretty screwed up. Gotham in general seems to be rather screwed up. Even the private schools here are filled with delinquents. Still, I like it much better than New Jersey, as crazy as that sounds. New Jersey was my own personal hell. Gotham is probably a police officer's worst nightmare, but it's not mine.

The auditorium is large and filled with a massive amount of students. It's hard to believe that this giant herd of kids only makes up the freshman class here at Gotham Academy. I've gone to a variety of schools. Most of them have been relatively small compared to this one. Of course, I've never, ever been to a private school. Who would pay to have their foster child be put in a private school? No one.

Well, apparently no one except Mr. Wayne.

I follow Blake like a lost puppy to a seat near the back near a group of rowdy teenage boys. Ah, those must be the 'assholes' she talked about. From the looks of it, everyone breaks apart in the room based on social standings. The prettiest girls sit together. The best looking and most muscular guys sit in a group near the front. The kids in the matching jackets sit in their little cult that I'm shying away from. I feel like I'll get lost the minute I break away from Blake. I'm relying on her to show me the ropes around here.

It's just now that I'm realizing that here I am, placing a huge amount of trust in a near stranger. I don't trust people easily. It's in my nature to see the absolute worst in everyone and trust them about as far as I can throw them, but here I am, acting like the two of us have been best friends for years. There must be something wrong with me. I'm being too trusting. But weirdly enough…

I don't care.

The sea of students spreads throughout the room. They're all taking their seats, but they're still chattering away animatedly. That is, until the lights shut off. Everyone immediately shuts up. And I don't mean gradually. I mean they all just cut off the word they're on with no further explanation, just because the light turned off. I sit back in my seat and wonder what could be so freaking important. Seriously, they got _teens_ to be quiet. That is no small feat. Is it a preppy private school thing? Or does it have something to do with whatever this assembly is about? I can't ask Blake, because even she said she didn't know that we were going to be called in for this today.

The spotlight on the stage is lit up, and a man steps out on stage. He seems to be nothing special. At least, nobody memorable. He's average height, average weight, has brown hair, and wears a nice suit with glasses. But his eyes… I can even see them from here. They're a piercing, icy blue color. When he looks out to the audience, I swear that he's looking at each and every one of us individually. It's unsettling at best. At worst, it's creepy. I hear Blake groan next to me, but I pay no attention to it. I'm too busy trying to somehow mentally will this man to look somewhere else. I want him to look somewhere that will make it obvious that he's not looking at me. He just has that effect. It's disturbing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a man from the side speaks in a booming voice.

"The principal," Blake whispers in my ear. He looks pretty intimidating. I'll be sure to stay on his good side as best as I can.

"We are pleased to have a visit by Dr. Jonathan Crane, the head of the Arkham Asylum. We ask that you be respectful and silent as he gives his very interesting presentation on how the mind affects the body."

A giant smile finds its way to my face. Psychology has always been a big interest of mine. It fascinates me to see how some people can go so far off the deep end and what goes on in their head as they lose their mind. I love learning how exactly some people can be void of any emotion or conscience, while others aren't and could never commit such terrible crimes. The mind is so complex and interesting. I love how everyone's is so different.

I sit back and grin as I listen to the lecture beginning. Maybe this school won't turn out to be the worst one I've ever been to.

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I'm one of the collect few who actually makes an effort to clap after the presentation is done. If anyone would care enough to listen, then maybe they would have found it as interesting as I did. This man really is deeply intrigued by his craft. Maybe his interest goes a little over into the morbid side at times, but otherwise, he seems as passionate about it as I am.

The house lights turn back on, and it seems that this must be the cue to leave around here, because everyone stands up and starts to talk again as they walk to the large auditorium doors. I don't even know where I'm supposed to go after this. What class are we on anyway? Blake glances over at the clock on the wall, like she read my mind.

"Sweet nuggets! We missed 2nd block and half of 3rd! That means we only have one class and a half left!" We stand up and start to walk to the doors, being the only ones left in the auditorium. Well, Dr. Crane is still here. I look over at him, stepping off the stage with his projector. I wish I could just talk to him one-on-one and hear some more patient stories. He must have plenty of them.

"Sweet nuggets?" I ask with a smirk. She shrugs.

"Would you rather me say 'holy shit'?" I shrug too.

"I mean, it's more normal than 'sweet nuggets'." She smiles wide and then laughs loudly.

"Who ever said I was normal? What is this normal that you speak of?" I start to laugh with her as we walk out of the auditorium together. So is this what getting a friend feels like? In that case, I like this feeling. I feel like Blake Demonte gets me. That's quite a thing to say, considering people almost never 'get me'. I've yet to meet anyone who lost their mom by their step-father's bullet and then bounced around in foster care for most of their life. I've never even met another foster child. I'm assuming Blake isn't either of those things, considering where she goes to school. She must actually have parents who pay for this. She can't relate to my situation. No one can and no one ever will.

Still, she just understands. Don't ask me how. She just _does_.

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**A/N: She actually says 'sweet nuggets'. Like, a lot. A LOT. I can't make her stop. HELP ME. I hope you like this and leave a comment! If not, that's okay too I guess... *goes off to cry in a corner* Okay, okay, that was a joke, but seriously, reviews are greatly appreciated. Don't be a silent reader! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: My best friend (AKA the basis for Blake) is having a full on fangirl attack over her character, so keep that in the back of your mind as you read!**

**I have to say, yet again, that there is a fair amount of cursing in this chapter. I just don't want to run the risk of offending anyone!**

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The school day is finally over, and by some miracle, I made it through without stabbing anyone in the neck with a fork. It was _very _tempting at times. Blake was right. This school is filled with assholes and bitches galore. Rich people seem to automatically feel entitled, and private school is just filled with spoiled rich kids. Some of the things these kids talk about just disgusts me. I grew up the child of a single mother who did everything she could to give me a good life. I couldn't have things that most children of two parents could. These kids obviously don't know the feeling. Just because their daddy can buy them whatever they want, it doesn't mean they have to flaunt it like snobs.

I caught myself at certain points wondering if _I'm _one of those annoying girls now. I'm Bruce Wayne's daughter, after all. He's _the _richest man in Gotham. Will people look at me like that now? I haven't flaunted the fact that he's my father, though. I've kept as far under the radar as humanly possible. Maybe I can avoid the topic of my living situation. I hope no one will bring it up.

I'm currently standing outside with Blake, waiting for Lucinda to pick me up and take me back to Wayne Manor before she heads off to the airport to go back to New Jersey. I'll be sad to see her leave, but I have a feeling that Blake is going to be here to talk to. I have no idea whether or not I've actually made a friend, considering my last friend who was actually my age is the last one I made at age seven. I don't have a lot to base this off of. Lucinda was kind of stuck with me. If we hadn't become friends, she would still have to see me anyway. I don't know how regular friendships are supposed to happen. I've forgotten how they work.

"Wanna come over to my house for a little while?" Blake asks suddenly. I turn to her and just blink in shock. I got invited to go over to someone's house. Someone wants to hang out with me. ME. This _has_ to be some sort of prank. I'm going to end with pig's blood poured on me or some crap like that. I should just say no and then be on my way.

But one look at Blake's face is enough to soothe my fears. She's being so genuine. She's not trying to embarrass me. She's just outgoing, something I sorely lack unless I'm pissed off at someone.

"Sure," I answer without thinking. Then, I take out my phone from my bag – which I'm so freaking glad Lucinda had in her car – and text Lucinda.

_Guess what? I MADE A FRIEND! Shocking, right? Could you tell Mr. Wayne that I'm going to her house and I'll get a ride from her? Thanks a ton! I'll miss you! ~ Vieve_

When I look up from my phone, Blake has already starting walking towards the parent-pick-up area. I jog ahead to follow her. I wonder what Blake's parents are like, or if I'll even meet them. Are they kind? Are they distant? Or does she only have one like I did? I guess I still do, but he's not legally my parent. I don't want to acknowledge how much that hurts, but it still tears at me just a bit when I think about it. I'd rather push it back in my brain instead of letting it stay in the forefront of my mind.

"Hey, Demon!"

Both Blake and I whip our heads around at the sound of someone yelling at us. Some boys stand over on the grass, laughing their asses off like they were joking around and someone decided it would be funny to drag us into it. To my relief, it's a different group of boys than earlier.

"I see you and V-Card are friends!"

Fuck everything to hell!

How the hell did they know?!

That must mean it's gotten around school by now. People heard about the incident and I'm now branded with the delightfully classy nickname 'V-Card'. This is just fucking great. I've been at this school for a total of eight hours, one single school day, and I've already earned a bullshit nickname! When I was still in my hometown of Princeton after Mom died, word got around fast that I had no real father and that my mother had been a single mother for most of my life. I was branded a 'bastard child' in middle school until I got a foster home out of Princeton. It was horrible and made me dread going to school every day.

That being said, I like 'V-Card' better, but not by much.

Blake gives them a sarcastic 'really?' look before rolling her eyes and turning on her heels, walking away from the situation. I follow her, but their laughing by the pricks in the background infuriates me. Her nickname is 'Demon'? It must be because of her last name. It looks like even those idiots can be slightly clever.

"They're assholes, all of them," she tells me. "The real joke will be on them when I make them refill my soda at a fast food joint. We'll see who's laughing then." Even I have to laugh at that. Very true, Blake. Very true. At least I know that I'm not a complete imbecile like them. I have that going for me. And hey! I'd much rather be labeled 'V-Card' than be given the title of the school slut.

"My ride's here," she announces. There are only three cars in the line; a small limo, an expensive looking sports car, and a regular SUV. Before I have time to guess which one is hers, Blake opens the door to the limo and tosses her backpack in. She gestures for mine, and I give it to her in a daze before climbing in after her. Exactly how rich is she? She doesn't dress like the kids here. She doesn't act like them. She doesn't talk like them. Yet we're riding to her house in a freaking _limo_.

"Good evening, Miss Blake," a voice says from the front seat. A butler, much like Alfred, is driving us to her house.

"Back at you, James." Well, the only difference between this man and Alfred is that Blake doesn't seem as close to this 'James' as Mr. Wayne is to Alfred. Her tone is stiff, not like Mr. Wayne's relaxed one around Alfred. I haven't talked to Alfred much at all yet, but he seems like a nice guy. I have a terrible feeling that I'll be conversing with him more than I will be with my own father.

Blake whips her Nook from her bag and plugs in the ear buds again, handing me one. She turns on her music again, picking up where we left off. I'm not at all disappointed when _You're Gonna Go Far, Kid_ by The Offspring blasts through my ear bud. She has the same taste in music as I do, and the same attitude, it seems. I like Blake more and more by the second.

We're able to listen to that song and _Angel With a Shotgun_ by The Cab before we arrive at a gate. Wow, that was a quick drive. I see James press a button up front, making the gates swing open. He drives up the long driveway, passing the well-trimmed grass and fancy shrubs. When we finally reach the house, I contain an amazed 'ah'.

It's _huge_. Granted, it's not as big as Wayne Manor, but it's still gigantic. So Blake _is _a rich kid. She's just not so showy about it. She has respect for herself, enough to make her not flaunt her riches like the snobbish kids at school. I don't know if I'm like her, though. I'm a foster kid to my own father. Does that mean I'm technically not from a rich family? It's not legally my family. I'm so confused on how this is supposed to work.

I follow Blake out the door, looking around like a tourist in a foreign country. It's so amazing. I could get lost around here, like I'm afraid will happen in Wayne Manor. My phone suddenly stars to vibrate in my bag. I take it out as she walks me to the front door and open up my most recent text.

_YAAAAAHHHHH! See? I TOLD you that you'd make a friend! Mr. Wayne okayed it. Go right ahead. Text me if you ever need me! Good-bye!_

I sigh. Saying good-bye to Lucinda feels like a knife in my heart. She was my security blanket each time I was carted off to a new foster house. She was always there to talk to. She understood me and listened when I ranted on about no one caring about how I felt or my opinions. But one person did care: her. I know I can't suddenly place this all on Blake. I don't want to dump all of my troubles on her after knowing her for about eight hours. I wouldn't want to freak her out with my problems.

"So, this is my humble abode," she says as we walk through the door. 'Humble' isn't exactly the word I would use to describe it at all. It's _wonderful_. What small part I've seen of Wayne Manor so far is similar to Blake's home, but the décor of this home is very modern, while the manor has a very old, classical style. Still, this is completely magnificent. Each and every corner of this house is decorated and painted expertly. Nothing is plain. A few weeks ago, I would have never even dreamed that I'd be in a house like this or like the one I'm currently staying in. No one this rich keeps a foster child like me.

"And if you'll just follow me, I'll show you to the living room." She takes me hand and drags me along as I look around her house in amazement. I probably look like an idiot with my wide eyes and jaw almost at the floor, but I can't stop staring at everything in the house. Man, I could get lost here too! It's lucky I have my own tour guide for this place. When I get back to Wayne Manor… Well, then I'll have to draw up a map or something.

She leads me into a living room just as grand as the rest of the house. It's open and has tall windows on all sides, letting in natural light. The couch is the centerpiece, with some chairs surrounding it, a fireplace on the far right, and a TV across from the couch. But what I notice out of all of this is a man sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, watching TV. Is that her father? Blake sighs beside me and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Uncle Jon, I thought you were going to be busy today," she says in an exasperated tone. The man turns around to face us. Icy blue eyes meet mine and I contain a startled gasp.

Her uncle is Dr. Jonathan Crane, our lecturer from today.

He gives us a small smile and stands up, walking towards us with ease. Something about his presence still disturbs me. I don't know what. I'm sure he's a perfectly fine man, but I'm a little too distrustful of the human race in general.

"After I visited your school, I thought I'd take a small break from my work." He then looks directly at me. I gulp. Like I've said before, I never like to be the center of attention. People looking at me unnerves me.

"Are you one of Blake's friends? I don't believe we've met." He sticks his hand out. "My name is Jonathan Crane."

I take his hand after some reluctance and shake it stiffly. His grip is firm, just like I expected it to be.

"My name is Genevieve Bancroft," I respond quietly. The way his piercing eyes bore through me, like they're looking into my soul, sets me on edge, but his dedication to his craft is something to be admired. I was enraptured with his lecture the entire time he was on stage and thought about it even after he had already left.

"I was in the audience during your presentation today," I inform him. "I've always been big into psychology." When I'm talking about my passion for the human mind, I'm always confident sounding and not at all awkward. It's like I'm a different person. When it comes to just being a normal person day-to-day, then that's where I fail epically.

He smiles wider, but it's still very contained. He's a typical doctor in that respect. Something about him is very ridged and subdued.

"You found it interesting, I take it," he observes. I smile back at him and nod enthusiastically.

"Very much. The way the mind affects the body fascinates me. I've studied it for years in my spare time. It's become a bit of a hobby, I suppose." Dr. Crane looks genuinely pleased at my confession. Maybe he's happy that at least someone took interest in his speech. Most of the kids were napping throughout the entire presentation. That couldn't have gone unnoticed to him.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Blake asks him randomly. He turns to her almost as if he forgot she was here in the first place.

"I honestly don't know," he answers. Blake rolls her eyes.

"Like usual," she grumbles. A frown finds its way to my face. Maybe we're more alike than I ever thought. Mr. Wayne has been avoiding me. Her parents apparently avoid her. Aren't we quite a pair? You'd think rich people would have more time for their children. My mom barely had any time with me, but she was still the best parent a child could ever ask for. Shouldn't someone who doesn't have to work ever again have more time to spend with their only child?

Now I don't know if I'm talking about Blake or me.

Crane turns his attention back to me and gives me a charming, charismatic smile.

"If you ever want to see Arkham for yourself, Miss Bancroft, then feel free to visit. Just ask for me at the front desk and I'll let you right in." He smiles at me again before bidding us both a hasty good-bye and walking out the front door. He may have an unsettling stare at times, but I think I just might take him up on his offer. I've got to find _something _to take up my time here in Gotham.

I plop myself down on the comfy couch right after Blake does so. The TV is on mute and silence fills the air. Even though we barely know each other, the silence isn't at all awkward or uncomfortable. But even then, it doesn't last all that long.

Blake turns to me with her legs crossed and claps her hands together in front of her.

"Now, seeing as though you're new around here, let's play a little game of 20 questions, just to get acquainted with each other." I nearly groan out loud. If this is anything like the one I played with Mr. Wayne, then this burgeoning friendship will come to an abrupt end very quickly.

"I'll start," she declares. I prepare myself to answer any question aimed at me. If this gets into the area of my family history, I'm putting a stop to this.

"What's your full name?"

"Genevieve Iris Bancroft."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Green."

"When's your birthday?"

"November 30th." So far, this is looking scarily like the last time I played this.

"What do you like to do?" Well, that question is a new one.

"I study psychology like I told your uncle. I also like to read anything I get my hands on. And when I'm able to, I play video games." She grins widely at the last part. Video games must be Blake-approved.

"Do you have a favorite movie?"

"Oh, definitely _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Monty Python movies are the greatest."

"I don't think I've ever watched any Monty Python movies." I give an overdramatic gasp at her confession.

"You are living what even the most generous soul could not call a 'life' if you haven't seen at least one Monty Python movie!" I declare. She laughs loudly before taking a pen out of her pocket and writing something down on her hand.

"There, now I'll remember that title so I don't continue to live this shell of a life any longer!" We both laugh. I don't think I've ever laughed like this with anyone since Mom.

"Now, what was I going to ask you next…?" she trails off, trying to think of another question.

"How about I ask you some questions now?" I cut in. She leans back at raises her arms in a 'go for it' gesture.

"What's your full name?"

"Blake Spencer Demonte."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue."

"When's your birthday?"

"November 29th."

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Your birthday is a day before mine and you didn't say anything?" She shrugs with a smirk.

"I knew you'd ask me that, so I thought I'd just sit back and wait until that came." I laugh a little and think of another question to grill her with.

"What's your favorite song?"

"_Angel With a Shotgun _for sure. Don't you think it's freaking awesome?" I have to agree with her that it's a pretty cool song and I do want to hear it again, but my absolute favorite song is probably _My Immortal _by Evanescence. It describes painfully well how I felt after Mom died. Sometimes when I listen to it, I can tell myself that others know how I feel. Why else would the song exist?

"Yeah, it's an awesome song. What's your favorite book?" I really, _really _wish that she would say _The Fault in Our Stars _so I would have someone to geek-out with over it, but I know that the chances are slim.

"Ugh, Vieve! Why don't you just ask me to choose a favorite child? That would be easier!" I smirk at her dramatics.

"You don't have any children," I remind her. She points at me to show I've hit the nail on the head, a big smile across her face concealing laughter.

"Exactly!" she exclaims loudly. Our faces crack and neither of us can contain it anymore.

We start laughing again and nearly fall off the couch together in our hysterics. I grab ahold of the armrest and keep myself on the seat, calming down a bit while taking in deep gulps of air to recover from my laugh attack.

"So, what should I know about Gotham City?" I ask, regaining control over my voice after all that laughing. She calms down too and moves her head back and forth, trying to think of something.

"Well, let's see… In case you haven't noticed after today, this town has so much crime that even our police department is full of scum."

I never knew it was _that _bad. I'm not naïve enough to believe that all authority figures are trustworthy, but Gotham must be unusually corrupt for the entire police department to be unreliable. Blake's a black-belt for a good reason. She's been living here longer than I have, obviously. She learned how to defend herself in this dangerous city. Thank god I have my pepper spray in my bag.

"That's why I live outside the city limits," she continues. "So do most of the well-off people in Gotham. We live pretty close to Bruce Wayne himself."

I hold my breath. Here it goes. I'm about to alienate myself from my first potential friend in years. Who would want to be the friend of Bruce Wayne's illegitimate kid?

"You heard of him? The Prince of Gotham?" she asks. "Rumor has it that he suddenly has a kid that's staying with him."

I can't believe I'm the daughter of 'The Prince of Gotham'. Does that make me the 'Princess of Gotham' or something totally stupid like that? I'm going to be forced to tell Blake that the kid he suddenly has is me. I guess I can kiss this opportunity good-bye. Lucinda never has to know how this turned out. I'll let her think I didn't screw this up.

"Everyone seems so hung up on it, but I don't really care."

Wait…

What?

"You don't care?" I ask, not quite believing. It seems everyone wants something from the children of the rich. My first day at private school has taught me that well. But Blake doesn't care. I'm not going to have to sit here and listen to her trash-talk me without her knowing it's me who is the child of Gotham's richest man.

"No, I really don't," she says again. "Whoever this kid is, he or she didn't ask to be heir to the only guy who disappears better than freaking Waldo." Once again, she's able to find humor in something so simple. I'm not scared for her to find out who I really am anymore. She won't judge me for it.

"You're right. I didn't ask for it."

Blake looks at me oddly for a few moments before she gets it. When she finally understands what I was implying, a big grin spreads across her face. Even though I was once nervous about anyone knowing my current situation, Blake makes it feel normal with her reaction to it. She's not looking at me like I'm trash for coming in to my current situation the way I did or trying to suck up to me because of my newfound status. She's not treating me any different than she was a few minutes ago.

"That's awesome!" she declares. "You can walk to my house from yours!"

There's no doubt about it now. Blake Demonte and I are officially friends.

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**A/N: So there's me on team Vieve and my best friend on team Blake. Don't ask me how this happened. We just ended up claiming our respective characters as our own like how dogs pee on fire hydrants to mark it as 'mine' (some of you can guess where I got that simile). Feel free to tell me in the comments which one you relate to more! Feel free to tell me ANYTHING you like about the story in the comments. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Because of my intense boredom, I've been writing like crazy. That is where this newest chapter was born out of. This was especially fun to write because, well, most writers will agree with me that writing these types of scenes is super fun! Please enjoy and leave a review if you did. Because, you know, feedback is VERY IMPORTANT (hint, hint, wink, wink)**

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I've only been living with my father for a week, and he's somehow found a way to continually ignore me at every turn. It's Alfred who drives me to school and picks me up, not him. It's Alfred who greets me when I get home from Blake's house, not him. Alfred and I eat meals together, while he's nowhere to be found. I swear to god, I can't figure the man out! Why did he bother taking me in when he seems to have no interest in having any sort of relationship with me?

So, that relationship is non-existent. My relationship with Blake, on the other hand, is becoming one of the best friendships I've ever had. She has quickly edged her way into the best friend slot in my life. When Lucinda calls now, she always asks to know about how Blake is doing as well as me. Blake and I still have to deal with being called 'Demon' and 'V-Card' by some of the guys at school, but it's getting easier to handle as I continue to attend Gotham Academy.

Speaking of school, I hate it. I despise Gotham Academy. My original thoughts on it being nothing but a fancy prep school for the rich and entitled were unfortunately correct. They were very, very correct. Wanna know how I know?

Because everyone knows I'm Bruce Wayne's daughter.

Yep, my big secret is out in the open. Don't ask me how this happened, because I don't know. Then again, I can probably guess. Word always travels fast when it comes to gossip this big. People have found out about some of my darkest secrets before, making me the target of my grade. I've been the school's personal football many, many times. They kick me around whenever they feel like it. Being different can be painful, especially when you're a teenager. I've gotten teased for being a foster kid, for not having a father, and now for having one.

Except there is where the main difference lies. I haven't been _teased _for this. No one has mocked me for being a foster child to my own father or for my past. People have been sucking up to me. Me, of all people! I never thought this day would come. Hell, I never even dared to dream the day would come! The type of people who used to mock me and detest me are now trying to worm themselves into my good graces. I find this whole situation _hilarious_, actually. I went from the girl everyone either ignores or tortures to the girl who everyone reveres in a short week. And why is that? Money. Money is the only reason any of these people give me a second glance. Well, money and status.

So, Blake remains my only friend here. She was the one who taught me how to survive here in Gotham. She and Alfred have helped me learn the ropes of survival in this crazy place, mainly how to not get mugged. Believe me; when you live in Gotham, not getting jumped is an accomplishment. But I think the tides might be turning lately. There's this guy who's gallivanting around the streets dressed as a heavily armed bat. Well, apparently he doesn't look _too _much like a bat, just the mask, but – ugh, I'm getting off track! Whatever this dude is, he catches criminals. He practically handed the police department one of the city's top crime lords on a silver platter. He's doing what the cops _should_ be doing, but are neglecting to do so. They call him 'Batman'. Very creative, right?

Batman is in the back of my mind, though. I've been as busy as I can manage lately. Between school, Blake, and my internship at Arkham, I've had a lot to do when I'm not wandering around the mansion aimlessly.

Oh yeah, I forgot about that! I _did _take Dr. Crane up on his offer to explore Arkham. He met me at his office and gave me a tour of the various wings. I guess I got a little nervous, because I spouted off a bunch of various knowledge of mine to correspond with each wing of the asylum we were in. I'd delve into the history of schizophrenia. I'd list of famous people who were able to live useful and productive lives while suffering from bi-polar disorder. I'd give my detailed thoughts on each stage of a mental breakdown. I did whatever I could to fill any silence in the air. I must have impressed him, because he invited me back again the next day. I came, and he informed me that he's like to give me a job in his office. Just a small one; I care for his paper work and make some of his appointments and all that crap that a normal assistant does. But hey, I get college credit! It works for me.

But you know what doesn't work for me? Dresses. Yep, I hate dresses. The fact that I have to wear a skirt to school every day annoys me, but dresses are worse. So when Mr. Wayne told me yesterday that I had to wear a dress for some dinner party-thing he had to go to, I wanted to scream. I almost refused, but then I reminded myself how lucky I was. I'm living with my father indefinitely. Sure, it's as his foster child, but it's better than being bounced back and forth between foster homes of people who have no responsibility to keep me. So, I bit my tongue and got into the dress Alfred picked up for me. Alfred has good taste, I must admit, but it's still a dress. It was a pretty, purple one-shouldered one. I didn't think I looked pretty in it, but I dabbed on some makeup, fastened my mom's locket on my neck, and put my hair up in a bun, clipping back stray hairs.

The dinner itself was pure hell. I could feel the glares on my back and the stares at my father whenever he so much as glanced at me. It doesn't matter how refined and sophisticated I try to look and sound; I will always be Bruce Wayne's bastard child in the eyes of high society in Gotham City.

However, I did get involved in an interesting conversation about Batman. And I did it _without _stuttering any of my words.

_The adults were talking about something or another, but I wasn't listening at all. I was just staring at my small portion of food, wishing I could flip the bird to all the jerks who were judging me silently without actually knowing anything about me or my story. I couldn't, though. I couldn't mess this up. I didn't want my father to send me back. I was doing well for once in my life._

_"Help me out here, Bruce," I heard the man sitting across from Mr. Wayne say. I lifted my head and watched as my father gave him a wide, but fake-looking smile as he spoke._

_"Well, a guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues," he said. I disagreed heavily, but once again, I held it in. _Don't fuck this up, Vieve,_ I admonished myself. I didn't want to be kicked to the curb by not just another foster father, but also my biological father in one swoop._

_"What do you think, Miss Wayne?" the man asked me. _Miss Bancroft_, I corrected mentally. It will always be Bancroft, no matter what, and I'm sick of my teachers trying to call me a Wayne. It's not me and never will be. Still, I put on as much of a smile as I could manage and then prepared to lie my ass off. I was going to say that I agreed with my father, that Batman was a lunatic, and that the sooner he was caught, the better. Yet, for some reason, my mouth refused to comply with my brain. Instead, I spoke my mind, which is always a bad thing in my case._

_"I think he's a hero," I said bluntly. Well, shit. I had just dug myself into a pretty deep hole. I couldn't get myself out, so why not just go deeper?_

_"If Gotham wasn't so filled with crime and corruption, then Batman wouldn't exist. All the police officers who sit back and do nothing or even worse, do deals with the local drug traffickers, are the reason this 'Batman' feels the need to go around righting wrongs. He's doing something no one else has bothered to do, and even if he has to wear a mask to get the job done, then so be it. At least we can all feel a bit safer when we walk the streets."_

_With that said, I took a sip of my water and ignored the stares from all three of the people at the table, even the woman who had been defending Batman herself. It occurred to me that I had only spoken that one time all night. Oh well. It wasn't like anyone cared to listen to Bruce Wayne's illegitimate kid anyways._

I can still remember that weird look I got from Mr. Wayne after my comment. I couldn't figure it out, which is odd for me. I inherited my mother's skill for being able to read people, and all the years of residing in the background gave me a boost in this skill. Yet I didn't have so much as an inkling of what he was thinking of when he stared at me that night.

I sigh and bend down to adjust my black boots when I accidentally hit the curb. They're not combat boots like Blake's pair that are unfortunately falling apart, but I wish I had a pair of those. These are a new pair of boots I bought a few days ago. The first benefit to having a rich father? Being able to fill up your wardrobe. The look of shock on his face when he saw that the money he gave me for clothes was spent on my punkish, nerdy style clothing was priceless. I don't have spikes on anything or something like that – I'm not a gothic chick – but I certainly appreciate boots and dark jeans, plus the ever so popular graphic tee. Right now, I'm walking back from Arkham in my _Imagine Dragons _tee, dark jeans, and these boots that I'm still breaking in.

The streets of Gotham at night creep me out. What's worse is where Arkham is. It's in the Narrows; the bad part of town. Usually, Alfred picks me up, but it's so late. I had to do some extra work because Dr. Crane had to deal with an unruly patient screaming something about a 'scarecrow' over and over again. I tried to get a little more information about it out of Dr. Crane, but he was unusually evasive. So, I left it alone for the time being. I had a mountain of paper work, anyway. I didn't exactly have time to argue with him. By the time I finished, it was already 11:30 p.m. I didn't want to bother Alfred with a call that would wake both him and Mr. Wayne. So, I'm braving the walk back.

Each little creak and rustle made around here creeps me out. I feel like something is going to pop out and grab me. Then I have to remind myself that Gotham is more about organized crime, like the mob. Muggers are few and far between. I have as little chance of getting jumped as I do of running into Batman himself.

Still, the air and atmosphere are unsettling tonight. I've had a short walk through the Narrows before, but something in my stomach flips tonight, like something has changed. I instinctively clutch my bag tighter and closer to my side. I feels the pepper spray in it, keeping me somewhat calm. If anything ever happens, at least I have something to defend myself with.

I look around to my sides, making sure no one is surrounding me like I suddenly feel is happening. To my relief, no one is on my right, left, or behind me. I let out a sigh of relief and continue to walk, turning my head back in front of me.

A soft, warm body collides with mine when I try to keep going. The force of it sends me backwards, landing on the sidewalk painfully. I give a little groan and pick myself up, preparing to apologize to whoever I bumped into. But, I don't get the chance. Something cool and sharp presses up against my throat, cutting off any word or noise from escaping my mouth. I flit my eyes over to the person I ran into. A man in a ski-mask and a hoodie stands with his other hand firmly on my shoulder, while he keeps holding the knife to my throat.

I internally panic. I can't even make a move for my pepper spray like this! I'm caught like an animal in a trap. If I make a move, he can cut my throat so quickly that I won't even see it coming. It will just be a flash and then bam, I'm gone.

"Give me your purse!" he demands. I stay silent, deciding the best course of action. _No. _I refuse to give up this purse. It has everything in it. My entire life resides in this bag. Even though I could pee my pants in fear right now, I won't give up my satchel to this thug.

"I said, give me your purse! Now!"

"Alright,' I lie through my teeth. "Let me take it off first." He reluctantly takes his knife away from my throat just enough for me to move a little and take my bag's strap off my shoulder. I lower my head like I'm trying to see the bag clearly, but it's just to make sure he can't place the knife back on my throat. Slowly, I glide the strap off my shoulder, reaching in the bag silently to retrieve the pepper spray. The darkness covers my actions. He doesn't know what I'm doing at all.

With the pepper spray clutched tightly in my hand, I pretend to be gently handing the bag off to him. He reaches out shakily to take the bag from me with his knife still raised in a defensive position. This guy is no expert at this. He's just a desperate man hit hard by the depression. I almost feel bad for what I'm about to do. _Almost_.

Quickly, I snap the bag back, away from his shaky hand, and pepper spray him right in the only holes left in the mask. His scream of pain shows that I've hit my mark. With the immediate danger gone, anger courses through me. If I had lost my bag to him, I would have lost everything I have left of my mom. All the photos of us and her locket and her note would all just disappear. He almost took that from me. The bastard has no idea that he could have robbed me of everything I hold near and dear. All he wants is money that I don't even have with me!

I kick him in the shin swiftly, more out of anger than to actually render him defenseless. He groans in pain as he bends over. The rage blinds me, making me tremble all over. I can't resist taking another swipe at him by going in to place another well-aimed blow to his other shin. He jumps back, resisting my kick.

"You little bitch!" he growls. He lunges forwards, his arms surrounding me as he throws me to the ground using all of his weight. All the air leaves me when I fall with him on top of me. I let out a shuddering gasp, trying desperately to catch my breath. My legs start to thrash and kick, trying to get this much-bigger man off of my small body. I flail my arms, I wiggle my torso, and I keep on kicking my legs. I do whatever I possibly can to escape, but it's not working. He just won't get off me.

I feel a white hot pain shoot through my head as his fist comes down, connecting with my face and knocking my head to the side. The concrete of the sidewalk only makes it worse when the side of my head connects with it. A groan of pain escapes my mouth as my head starts to throb harder than it ever has before. When I look back up at him through blurry vision, I realize that if I don't do something and soon, I'm going to die. I'm going to die, just like Mom did.

Shit, shit, shit! How do I get out of this?

He leans back to deliver another hit, and I seize the only opportunity I have by bringing up my now free arms. Using a sudden surge of energy, I push him off of me as hard as I can muster. When he rolls off my body, I jump up and feel my head start to spin at the action. Oh god, I think I'm gonna hurl. I can barely see a foot in front of my face. Everything looks like it's spinning.

A big, black object glides down from seemingly nowhere, landing on the man who attacked me. I scream in terror. What _is _that thing?! I can't see what it is with my vision so messed up by being hit in the head. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, telling myself to calm down. My vision is probably also affected by my hysterics. If I calm myself, maybe I'll be able to see clearly.

When I open my eyes back up, my attacker is on the ground, seemingly unconscious. I release a breath, relieved that I'm safe for now. Then I look next to him, at what it is that knocked him out. Standing with his arms crossed and a deep-set frown on his face is none other than the man I defended at dinner yesterday.

I'm face to face with Batman.

I open my mouth, trying to think of what to say to him. I can't even choke out any words to thank him. He may have saved my life. I held the man off pretty well, but I'm not sure if I would have been able to continue keeping him at bay when my vision went blurry. He came to my rescue, I guess you could say. What do you say to someone in that situation? I was just probably saved by Gotham's freaking hero. There are so many people here that would kill to meet him. There's so many police men that would kill to _catch _him. I was saved by a wanted 'vigilante', yet I almost wish he wasn't here because I still think I could have handled this myself. I have no words.

Without saying anything, he takes my arm and drags me over to a streetlight. I can see his armor fully in the light. It's very, very dark and looks to be nearly indestructible. His cape must be what helps him glide from place to place and not hurt himself. He uses his finger to raise my chin so he can see my injuries. I feel like I've been hit by a train, but I hope it's nothing severe looking. I can't have anyone knowing what happened.

But when I get back to the manor, Alfred and Mr. Wayne might ask questions…

I automatically slap Batman's hand away from my face without even thinking. Yes, I just hit the infamous Batman, but I don't care at all what his reaction to it will be. I need to get to the manor somehow without being seen by either Mr. Wayne or Alfred and then sneak in while still not being noticed by either of them. I can't let them think I attract trouble. That's the best way to get shipped back to New Jersey in a second. If I run, maybe I can make it back quickly and slip in through the back with my key to the house.

I break away from Batman with the intent on running all the way back to Wayne Manor. He catches me by the arm before I can make any progress.

"Oh, you're not going _anywhere _by yourself," he growls. The rumors were correct. He does have a low, gravelly voice that sounds like it could be real, but must be faked. The way he says it makes it seem as if he cares about me, as ridiculous as that sounds. His tone is angry, yet very concerned. He must have that same feeling for everyone. Otherwise, why would he put his life on the line for random Gotham citizens?

I try to pull myself away from his grasp, but he's impossibly strong. Even when he's not hurting me with his grip, he still makes sure I can't escape it.

"You don't understand!" I exclaim. "I need to get home _now_!" He narrows his eyes at me, which I can barely see through the holes in his bat-shaped mask.

"And why is that?" he asks. Why the hell is the notorious Batman interested in my dull personal life? My best guess is that he's just bored and he wants a story, like how people listen to gossip to satisfy their boredom. I guess I can tell him the truth. I owe him much more than that after what he did for me, but this is a start.

"I don't want my father to think I'm more trouble than I'm worth," I say. It's true. If he views me as a problem child like many of my other foster parents did, then I can kiss Gotham, Blake, and Alfred all goodbye. He won't want to keep me around if I can't stay out of trouble. I can't mess this all up for myself like I've done so many times before.

"Why would he think that?" Batman asks. I'm once again wondering why he insists on stepping way too far into my personal business by demanding answers. And I'm also wondering why I'm not telling him to shove off and am instead responding to him like he's my therapist or even Blake.

"I've only been living with him for a week," I inform him. "Even then, he's only keeping me around as a foster child. I've been in the system since I was seven. Back then, I was a bit of a, um, _problem_, I guess you could say. I don't want him to think that I'm still a problem and send me back to another foster house. I want to make this one last for a little while longer."

Something flashes across his face, some type of emotion, but it's gone just as quickly as it came. I have some sort of idea on what that emotion was, but I hope I'm wrong. I hate when people feel like they need to pity me when I tell them I'm a foster child. Their pity won't bring my mom back or give me a permanent home. I hope that's not what I saw flash in his eyes.

"I should take you home," he insists still. I shake my head vehemently. Even if he is a hero that saved my life, I won't let him take me back to the manor. Unless he can get me in without alarming Mr. Wayne or Alfred, then I'd much rather brave a walk back by myself. How will they react when I walk through the door, sporting a beat up face and being escorted by Batman?

Besides, even though he saved me at the end there, I think I had the situation handled pretty well before he came. I got the man off me, didn't I? I'm a big girl; I can handle myself. I don't need him to escort me anywhere. If someone else jumps me, which I seriously doubt will happen, I'll have my pepper spray in hand to drive them away. I don't need his constant vigilance over me.

"I'll survive," I say flatly. "Now please just let me go."

He looks at me for what feels like an entire minute, staring into my eyes intently while he decides on what to do. Finally, he releases my arm.

"Fine," he concedes. "Go right ahead." I give him a small smile to show that I really am appreciative.

"Thank you," I mumble, walking past him and towards the direction I was going originally. Now the only thing left is figuring out how to hide this from Mr. Wayne and Alfred.

Out of curiosity, I turn around to see if he's still standing there, watching me leave.

Batman is gone.

I don't know what I was expecting. Did I want him to be there, making sure I got home safely? Did I want _someone _to care about my well-being? I force my eyesight back on the path in front of me. Realizing how late it must be now, I break into a sprint. I need to get back to Wayne Manor, and fast.

* * *

My chest is still heaving when I arrive at the back entrance to the manor. I ran most of the way here, not stopping for anything. It must be past midnight already. I know Alfred is asleep by now, but I have no idea what Mr. Wayne's nocturnal activities consist of, so I might have to worry about waking him up. I'm not quite sure, but I need to be as quiet as possible so I don't risk alarming him if he is awake.

I jiggle the key in the lock until I hear the faint clicking sound. Silently, I open the door and step in the house. I twist the knob before I close it again so it will make no noise, slowly untwisting it once it's in place. Luckily, I know how to get to my room from this part of the house. Yes, I still get lost in here sometimes. Sue me; I wasn't born rich.

I slip off my boots and silently dash across the hallway and then up the main stairs. My room is the third door on the right. I slip in just as silently and toss my bag on the floor next to me. When the door is closed, I let out a relieved breath and rush to the bathroom built in next to my room, flipping the light switch on so I can examine my face. Even when the light is on, my eyes are still downcast because I'm afraid of what I might see. Yes, I have some makeup I can use to cover it up if it's bad. Still, there are certain things I can't cover with any amount of makeup. If there's swelling, I'm done for.

Slowly, I look up at my reflection in the mirror.

I'm a mess.

My hair is askew from the tumble to the gravel. A large bruise sits on my left cheek already, and I know from experience that it will only get darker when tomorrow comes. Great, now I have that to look forward to. Thankfully, there's no swelling. I have no idea how I got that lucky. Unfortunately, there's a nasty cut on my lip. I don't know how I didn't feel that before. The adrenaline must have prevented me from feeling anything besides that initial pain from the punch to the face. There's no way I can hide an injured lip. I have to come up with an excuse, and a believable one at that. I'll just tell them I tripped on the job. Clumsy me just fell over my own feet and went tumbling down, hitting my lip on a desk or a table before I hit the ground. Yeah, that's it! That's perfectly believable with a little faked embarrassment added in.

I wash my face off and pin my hair back before looking in the mirror again. I look slightly more presentable now. No one has to know I was almost mugged. No one has to know that I met Batman himself. I won't be labeled a 'problem' again. I'll keep living with Mr. Wayne.

That is, until he does what everyone else does and jumps from this sinking ship.

* * *

**A/N: So, yeah, I'm too lazy and exhausted to give much of anything here at the end. I hope you enjoyed!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: TO ALL OF YOU WHO READ THIS PERVIOUSLY!**

**I screwed up and skipped a chapter! I am SOOOOO sorry!**

* * *

I wake up with bleary eyes and a faint headache. The after-effects of last night are strong. Luckily, today is a Saturday, so I don't have to leave this ridiculously comfy bed if I don't want to. Believe me, I don't. Not at all. I look over at my alarm clock and see that it's only 10:45 a.m. I know that most normal, productive members of society are awake by now, but I never said I was productive, and I sure as hell never called myself normal. I sleep into the afternoon and regret nothing. Hibernation sounds wonderful right about now.

I soon remember that I'm expected at Arkham any time between 11:00 and 1:00. I groan and place a pillow over my head. There goes a relaxing day. But I guess having to work a little isn't that bad. Remember, Vieve, college credit! Plus, it's a chance to explore my passion in psychology. Some patients have interesting symptoms that don't seem to match up with a full psychotic breakdown. It's like it was suddenly accelerated for some odd reason. I feel like there's more Dr. Crane hasn't told me. I know a scarecrow is an external tormentor that a patient having a psychotic breakdown would imagine, but why are so many of the patients experiencing the same hallucination? I can't quite figure it out.

I sit up in my bed, still mostly covered by my soft sheets. My bag lays next to me like it's my baby, which is basically the correct way of describing how I treat it. I slip my hand in it and pull out my cell phone. If there's anyone I can't lie to about what happened to my face, it's Blake. She'll be able to figure out within a second that I'm hiding something. It's better to reveal it now than wait until she flips out over my busted lip and demands to know who she needs to beat up.

Each dial tone goes by without an answer. It's only 10:45 a.m. I know she's still sleeping and will most likely chew me out by phone when she answers. Well, I mean _if _she answers.

_"Whaaaaaaaaat?!" _I hear Blake exaggerate from the other end of the phone. I hold in my laughter.

"You were still sleeping?" I joke. I hear her growl deeply, like a wounded animal about ready to strike its attacker.

_"It is 10 o'clock in the fucking morning! What red-blooded teenager is actually awake now except _YOU_?!"_

I'm pretty sure her voice is going to soon reach a level that will render me deaf for life, so I better cut to the chase before she marches over here and beats my face in for rousing her from her 'beauty sleep'.

"Oh, then I guess you don't wanna know about how I was mugged last night…"

I hear an alarming *thump* from her end of the phone, and then complete silence. Blake is never silent for long. Then I realize what the thump must have been; she fell off her freaking bed in shock. This time, I don't hold in my laugh as a little chuckle escapes me.

_"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN 'YOU GOT MUGGED'?!" _she shouts loudly. I pull the phone away from my ear to recover my hearing. Man, her voice sure can reach an unnatural level!

"Some guy tried to take my purse and I wasn't too fond of the idea of giving it up. Long story short, I fought him off and then Batman showed up out of nowhere."

A long silence passes between us, and I'm wondering how I managed to render the usually chatty and lively Blake speechless. What is she doing or thinking right now?

_"You. Got. Mugged?!" _she shouts again. _"What the hell were you thinking, Vieve? Didn't I tell you how to stay safe in the Narrows? Didn't I?!"_

I roll my eyes. Right now, I wish she could see that through the phone.

"Well, you can't exactly pass your black-belt onto me," I point out. "It doesn't work that way."

_"No excuse!" _she declares. _"What if you had been stabbed or shot or something? You would've left me without my bestie!"_

I scoff, but I can't keep the smile off my face as I do so. She hides her concern with jokes, but I know she's worried about me. Blake is like a guard dog. If she cares about someone, she'll protect them with her life, no matter the cost. Being 5'9 (I was off by an inch) and a black-belt, she's fully capable of beating up anyone who comes within 10 yards of me. I haven't had someone like that in my life since Mom.

"I'm okay," I assure her. "I just have a pretty nasty cut on my lip from falling down on the ground and a bruise on my cheek from when he socked me in the face, but otherwise-,"

_"Wait, wait, wait!" _Blake interrupts. _"Hold up just one moment here. He punched you in the face? Okay, what did this guy look like? I want his head on a silver platter!"_

The anger in her voice is growing with each word. I know that if she knew who this man was, she'd make good on her threat.

"It was dark and he had a mask on. That's not important, though. I'm just fine and I'll come over to your house later today. Right now, I have to go."

_"But why?" _she whines. I smirk at her tone.

"Are you forgetting that I'm you uncle's assistant?" I ask. She groans. I've gotten the feeling over the past few days that she doesn't like the fact that I'm Dr. Crane's assistant. Maybe she resents that my time is being taken up doing work for him, or maybe she resents that his time is being taken up teaching me.

"I promise I'll be over later! I gotta go. See ya!"

_"See ya."_

I hang up the phone, but wonder why her tone when she said goodbye was lacking her usual enthusiasm. Shrugging it off, I get up out of bed. Even though I can go to Arkham later, it's better to get something like this out of the way so I can relax for the remainder of the day. I skate over to my dresser and grab a simple, V-neck white tee plus a pair of dark jeans. I throw them on haphazardly, not really caring about how I look, and then lace up my black converse shoes. I brush my long hair into a ponytail and rush to the bathroom. My makeup is able to cover the bruise sitting on my face, despite the fact that it got much worse over night, but my cut lip is still on display. I wash it to make it look better, but it won't go away no matter what. I still have to lie my way out of an explanation.

I walk downstairs and make a beeline for the kitchen as soon as I smell food. I wasn't originally planning on eating before I left, but Alfred's cooking can definitely sway me to stick around a bit longer. The scrambled eggs sit on a plate on the table. That's not what shocks me. Mr. Wayne is sitting across from the plate set for me with a fork in hand, twirling around some of Alfred's eggs on his plate. He's usually gone by now doing… whatever it is he does. Yet here he is, sitting and eating in the kitchen. Okay, what's up with this? What's his motive here?

I feel so ridiculous for questioning his 'motive' in sticking around the house for a little while longer. It's _his_ home, after all. Who am I to question that? But his presence makes me uncomfortable. Now I have to lie to him _and _Alfred about how I sustained these injuries to my face. Wasn't one person enough?

I silently take a seat and lower my head, shoveling some scrambled eggs into my mouth to avoid the inevitable question that I can only put off for so long.

"Miss Genevieve, what happened to your face?"

Yep. I knew that was coming. I just hoped that Alfred wouldn't be the one who noticed.

I look up and find both of them staring at me. Alfred is looking at me with worry, while Mr. Wayne is looking at me with an intense gaze. He's waiting intently for my answer. I have no idea why it's so important to him. I'm injured either way. Is it a dad thing?

Nah, it can't be. He hasn't really done any of the other 'dad things' since I've been here.

"Oh, this?" I ask, pointing to the cut like it's nothing. "I tripped at Arkham yesterday and hit Dr. Crane's desk as I was falling. Clumsy, right?" I pretend to shrink a little in my chair like the story embarrasses me. I'm actually trying my best to keep them both from seeing into my eyes. They'd be sure to give me away.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Wayne asks. I nearly choke on my eggs. That's probably the most he's spoken to me in the past few days. Every time he speaks to me, I'm so shocked that I have to make sure it really happened and it wasn't just a part of my imagination. It rarely ever occurs.

"Y-Yeah," I stutter out. "I'm fine. It's just a cut."

With my assurance that I'm fine, Mr. Wayne goes back to eating his breakfast with downcast eyes. My stomach tightens painfully as I watch him avoid eye contact and go back to not speaking with me at all. Some part of me yearns to have an amicable relationship with him, but another part of me knows that it most likely will never happen. I have come to accept that, albeit a bit angrily.

I finish my plate and place it in the sink, bidding both Alfred and Mr. Wayne a hasty goodbye before I rush out the door. Despite my hurry, something stops my body entirely as soon as I walk out the door, making me come to a screeching halt. I stand still at the front stoop of the house, wishing that this would be when Mr. Wayne rushes out and wishes me a good day like he hasn't done since I've come here. I wish that we could have a moment, just one moment, where I feel as if we could actually be father and daughter instead of strangers. A few moments pass before I realize how stupid I'm being and walk away from the house. Miracles like that only happen in the movies. If my life were a movie, that miracle would have come a long time ago.

* * *

"Is there anything else you need me to do?" I ask Dr. Crane as I neatly stack the papers on his desk. He shakes his head and gives me a charming smile. Sometimes I think his entire job revolves around his ability to manipulate human emotions so well. He's one of the most charming people I've ever met and has the ability to either make you feel at ease or make you feel the exact opposite. I'm not yet sure if that's a good thing or not. But he's only my boss, so what do I care?

"You've done your job for the day," he informs me. "You're welcome to leave any time you want to. I've got some things to take care of. Feel free to let yourself out." He leaves me alone in his office. By now, I know every nook and cranny of this place. I'm comfortable in here. I always feel in my element when I'm in Arkham.

I take the stapled papers and open the filing cabinet, prepared to put them in one of the various pockets. But before I can, I see something strange stuck between some papers in one of the filing folders. It looks like a paper bag or some sort of potato sack, brown and wrinkled. That doesn't belong here. It should be in the trash. I grab it and pull it out of the drawer. It's surprisingly rough under my fingers and a bit tattered. I open it up a little more to get a closer look at what it really is that I'm holding.

_Scarecrow._

How could this possibly be…?

_Scarecrow._

This is what they've been screaming about… What they've been trying to get away from them, like it was an actual external demon.

_Scarecrow._

The desperate cries of the patients sound in my head as I look at the disturbing scarecrow mask in front of me.

_Scarecrow._

_Scarecrow._

_Scarecrow!_

I quickly stuff the mask back exactly where it was and slam the filing cabinet door shut. The papers shake in my hands as I try to figure this all out in a calm and rational way. But that's pretty hard to do when the situation is nothing near 'rational'.

What the hell has he been doing to the patients? Here he has the mask of the very thing they've all suddenly been fearing. This can't be a coincidence. I'm not stupid enough to think that. He has something to do with these patient's fear of scarecrows. I'm not sure exactly what he's doing. All I know is that it must have some connection with this sudden outbreak. But the question is, what do I do about it?

What are my options? I don't really _know_ any cold, hard facts. There's no actual evidence that he has _done _anything. All I have is a scarecrow mask and a hunch. Can I very well continue to work here knowing that this guy is somehow messing with the minds of his patients? I feel like I have to, but at the same time, I don't want him to know I'm on to him.

I want to know more about what he's doing.

It may be a crazy idea that will get me in some deep trouble, but I found this mask and I know enough about the inside of Arkham to know about the patients who scream out at a 'scarecrow' to leave them alone. I might be the only one who can find out for sure what's happening. I might be the only one who can solve this mystery.

This is too much right now. I need to think for a little while. I slam the papers down on the desk and exit his office, jogging towards the exit.

"Genevieve!" I hear Crane call. I freeze in my place and turn to face him. How do I look this man in the eyes now that I know about this mask? How can I keep a straight face around him when I'm planning on spying on his activities? His very presence makes me want to run away as fast as I can.

"Yes?" I ask in a sweet voice. My own tone makes me want to gag.

"Did you place those papers in the filing cabinet?" he asks. I can see nervousness breaking through his cool exterior. He should be nervous. This just proves to me even more that he's hiding something huge, and I'm going to find out what it is.

"No," I say, feigning innocence. "Was I supposed to?"

He shakes his head and visibly relaxed with the knowledge that I didn't touch his precious secret. If only that were true, Crane. As soon as he leaves me to go back to whatever it was he was doing, I scowl at his back. How did I not notice before that this man is just full of secrets? He oozes secrecy and deception. I'm such an idiot for not noticing before that he was not to be trusted. Yet, here I am with a job as his assistant. I let him manipulate me into trusting him. Luckily for me, I don't give many people my full trust. Had I really trusted him as much as I trust Blake or even Alfred, I probably would have been blind to this.

My cell phone rings in my pocket as I'm walking back from Arkham. I've been so distracted thinking about how to find more information on Crane's deception that I almost didn't notice it start to vibrate. When I take it out, it's as expected. Blake's calling me, probably bored out of her mind and wanting to ask me to hang out.

"Yep?" I say as I answer.

_"So, does that invitation to hang out later still stand?" _she asks hopefully, cutting to the chase.

I sigh. With everything that has happened today, I'm not sure if I'm still up to hang out with Blake. Especially when I might run into Crane. He's over at the house sometimes, and that's not something I want to risk right now. It's not worth it.

"Sorry, Blake. I have to take a rain check on that."

She groans a little, but doesn't question it.

_"Fine, I guess," _she grumbles unhappily. I smile to myself.

"I promise I'll make it up to you."

_"You'd better!" _I laugh despite the heaviness I feel. Blake always manages to make me feel better no matter the situation.

"Talk to you later, Blake," I promise.

_"See ya," _she says. I hang up and shove my phone back in my pocket, continuing to walk down the dank streets of the Narrows.

I can't tell Blake about my suspicions when it comes to her uncle. She might say something to Crane to tip him off that I'm on to him. This secret stays with me.

I _will _find out Crane's secret.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to DarthPhoenixFire for pointing out my mistake! God, this is SO embarrassing! To save myself some of this embarrassment, I'll be updating again a little later.**

**Sorry!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I'm still super embarrassed over my slip up... Like, seriously, it was stupid. If you read my last chapter before I fixed it, then that means you've already seen this one.**

**Like, seriously, I am SUPER embarrassed. I'm so sorry. I ruined a complete plot line. But, the show must go on! Please excuse the mistake.**

* * *

If you had a secret, where in your office would you hide it?

I've spent two freaking days trying to find something in Crane's office that points to his involvement in the sudden paranoia of the patients at Arkham. I found the creepy scarecrow mask again yesterday, still shoved in the filing cabinet, and I took a picture with my phone. When I left the office for a brief amount of time and then came back, it was mysteriously missing. Crane isn't stupid enough to leave something so incriminating in his filing cabinet, especially when he has someone who might go through them. He must have realized he left it there against his better judgment and grabbed it out of there.

And so far, I have no more evidence of anything that could make Crane out to be the devious man I'm sure he is. It's frustrating as hell. I'm the only one who knows that anything is up with him. I'm the only one who suspects he's doing something to his patients. I've come up with a few theories as to what exactly he's doing, but the only one that makes enough sense to actually be a reality is that he's drugging them somehow and then putting on the mask. Enough hallucinogens can make even the sanest man go crazy. When they're under the influence of the drug, then what they see could turn into something much scarier, much more evil. It all depends on what type of drug he used.

But why? What would motivate a professional doctor to torment his patients? Maybe it's for some sort of 'experiment' and he really thinks he's doing a good thing. Or maybe he's just that sick. There's the possibility that he genuinely enjoys the mental torment he inflicts. If that's the case, then there's no telling what he'd do to me if he found out what I'm planning. But I haven't let that deter me. When I decided to do something, I stick to it.

I haven't even told Blake that I'm planning on taking down her uncle. How could I? It's obvious she idolizes him. Her parents are never around, so Crane is her only parental figure. She'd believe anything he told her. He could turn her against me in a second, and I wouldn't even blame her. I can't tell her what I found. I've even had to sacrifice most of our time together for the sake of snooping around his office. I keep having to shoot down her invitations to hang out after-school because I'm too busy going back to Arkham for 'work'. It hurts to not even be able to see my best and only friend, but I spend all my free time here at Arkham. I'm sure even Crane is sick of seeing me around, but I put on the act of an overeager student and he falls for it like always. I'm a damn good actor, if I do say so myself. I'd say I'm safe.

At least for now.

The door to the office opening is what startles me enough to make me slip my hand out of the filing cabinet. I was poking around for any suspicious papers or objects. I found nothing, as usual. So far, my sting on him is going nowhere, but I refuse to give up on this. I want to take him down for abusing his position of power. These people are mentally unstable patients, not lab rats.

"Is there anything you need, Dr. Crane?" I ask in my pretend-sweet voice. Being polite to him feels like swallowing poison. Actually, scratch that; swallowing poison sounds less painful than this.

"No, not at the moment. I just need to grab a few things real quick."

I step aside as he pulls some papers from the filing cabinet and leaves his briefcase on the desk before rushing away to some other meeting or something that he refuses to tell me about. A devious smirk spreads across my face. He's never left me alone with his briefcase. Time to sneak through yet another place that I do not belong!

Spying on Crane is more fun than I thought it would be.

I wait a few moments to make sure he won't come back through the door claiming to have forgotten something again. I know the general layout of Arkham, so I have a vague idea of where he is now. I think I'm safe from being caught for the time being.

I unclick the various latches on the briefcase. It's not that hard to get it open. Now that I think about it, Crane really should have gotten a lock on this. If he has as many secrets as I think he does, then the least he could do is keep the under wraps somehow. It's a good thing he doesn't. Now it's easier for me to sneak in to!

I flip the top open of the briefcase, revealing the contents. Some type of… liquid is in a device. I recognize this device from science class last year, one of the few years when I actually learned anything. It turns liquid into gas. This must be the hallucinogen that I figured he was using! He makes it as a liquid and turns it into a gas using this device. The scarecrow mask sits right next to it, showing the connection between the two. Quickly taking out my phone, I snap a picture of the incriminating evidence before he can come back.

As I reach back over to close it, I feel a slight tug on my sleeve. I pull a little bit to get my sleeve back, but it's stuck. When I look down, I see my sleeve is caught on one of the little hinges of the briefcase. I tug again, but it won't come undone. The fabric is twisted in there. I have to resist the urge to laugh at the stupidity of it all. All this information on Crane gathered, and a loose sleeve will be what does me in. Using my other hand, I try my best to maneuver the loose sleeve off of the hinge. It's stuck pretty well.

The sound of faint footsteps down the hallway puts me on panic mode. That could be Crane coming back here at this very moment. If he finds me, I'll end up in one of the padded cells here, screaming at a scarecrow no one else can see.

In a last ditch attempt, I put one hand down on the briefcase and rip my arm away as hard as I can, the sleeve finally comes out, a tiny bit frayed, but it's better than being stuck there and Crane flipping shit when he sees I found his secret.

I'm finally able to shut the briefcase and snap it fully back into its original position. I smirk again when Crane enters the office and quickly grabs his briefcase, bidding me a quick goodbye.

He will never know what hit him.

* * *

_Third Person POV..._

As Jonathan Crane opens his briefcase to retrieve, he notices something is amiss. The latch on the left feels like it has something fuzzy on it. That's certainly odd. He doesn't remember anything coming into contact with his suitcase that could have deposited something like a string on it. He rips it out and examines it, twirling it between his fingers lightly. The dark blue, stringy cloth brings back an instant memory.

_Genevieve Bancroft walked into his office, carrying some of her school books. A shy smile graced her features._

_"I hope you don't mind me putting them down over on your desk," she said hopefully. Thinking nothing of it, he motioned for her to continue. As she set down the heavy textbook and notebook, he caught a glimpse of her clothing. A dark blue jacket was overtop a tee shirt that he didn't give much thought to._

Crane balls one of his hands into a tight fist, slamming it down onto his desk.

_A dark blue jacket._

The girl! She went through his briefcase like the little rat she is. She discovered his scarecrow mask and fear gas. The little brat had deceived him after he gave her an opportunity she so obviously wanted. It's obvious to him that Genevieve Bancroft knows about the Scarecrow.

Therefore, she's a liability and must be taken care of. Loose ends always need to be tied up.

Crane smirks as he takes out his phone. He knows that his niece, Blake, is best friends with Genevieve. He also knows that Genevieve has spent most of her free time at Arkham, doing various jobs in his office.

_And spying on me,_ he thinks furiously. Either way, she has had no time for poor Blake. His niece has complained to him about it before. Crane also knows that Blake has no father or even remotely parental figure other than himself. She clings to him like a toddler clings to her mother. Before, he found it downright annoying and only tolerated it because he felt he owed it to his sister to care for her child while she was off enjoying life. Now, he can finally use that annoying attachment to his advantage. He has Blake wrapped around his finger. Manipulating her trust won't be too hard.

"Blake, my dear! Would you mind coming over to my office real quick? It's important."

* * *

_Third Person POV..._

Bruce Wayne is currently deep into Batman mode, meaning there is nothing and no one that can distract him from the task at hand.

Well, that's a bit of a lie. There is _one _person who seems to be creeping into his thoughts lately. No matter where he is now, no matter what he's doing, no matter how much he tries to push his personal life away, he can't help but let thoughts of his daughter creep into his head.

_Vieve_.

It's the name he calls her in his head, the one he's sure she wouldn't let him call her out-loud. He noticed how she told Alfred to call her Vieve after getting closer to him. Of course, he disregarded that invitation for the more formal sounding Genevieve, but she still offered it up. She's never offered it to him. Though it stings a bit, he can't blame her. Every time she gives him that hopeful look, that look that wonders whether or not he'll actually speak to her that day, he wants to give her a hug and tell her that it's not her fault he's acting this way. Keeping his distance from her may be harsh, but he knows he has to. There's no other way. He's doing this to protect her.

He snaps back into 'Batman mode' once he hears footsteps. He's in a dank little apartment, having just found some drugs cleverly hidden in stuffed animals, and he's been waiting for the perpetrators to come back. Sure enough, the footsteps draw closer and then voices are added into the mix. One of the men in the group steps into the bathroom to pee. Batman laughs internally at the manner in which the man is going to be caught.

_Rookie mistake_, he thinks reprovingly. Before the man knows what's happening, Batman smashes his head into the glass of the mirror. Another man follows him, and he's taken care of in a similar manner. Everything is going fine, just as planned. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. It's just a normal night for him.

That is, until the man in the scarecrow mask and the girl appear behind him.

The girl's clothing is costume-like, not unlike his own. A red corset with black trimmings hugs her body, while her short skirt colors ruffles out. A layer of black is on top of the skirt, followed by an asymmetrical layer of red, then a small layer of black. She wears a black metal skull mask with an intricate pattern, a black top-hat with a red ribbon tied to it, and then dark fish-net tights on her legs that lead down to black combat boots. Her hands have black, lace patterned gloves on them and a utility belt is around her hips. Her hair is tied in a bun or a pony tail and hidden in her hat.

Before Batman has time to react to the demonic looking girl, she reaches out and sprays him with a foreign gas. As soon as it hits him, everything seems to stop. His vision becomes blurred around the edges, and the world is going in slow motion around him. His head is a jumble of thoughts and feelings he can't seem to get a grip on. He raises his head and looks at the girl and the man in the mask to try and make sense of this. To his horror, bats are flying out of the holes in the scarecrow mask, while they crawl out of the holes in hers. He back away in terror, hitting a chair as he does so. They're all around, swarming him as everything becomes distorted and grotesque. If he had control over his voice, he'd scream.

"Aw, look at that, Scarecrow," the girl says as the bats fly at him. "He's having some trouble taking the toxin." Batman keeps on trying to scoot back, but he only ends up falling to the floor. He can hear the screeches of the bats attacking him, their bodies skimming over his suit.

"Sit a spell, won't you?" the girls asks mockingly. "Scarecrow, why don't you offer our guest a drink?"

The Scarecrow douses Batman with alcohol as he tries to clear his head. He can barely see straight between the bats and the blurred vision. Nothing is normal.

_'What's going on?!'_ his mind screams in a panic.

"You look like a guy who takes himself too seriously," The Scarecrow says. "You want my opinion?"

The girl takes out a lighter with the flame glowing brightly.

"You need to lighten up," she finishes for her partner. With that, she chucks the lit flame at Batman's body, setting him ablaze. His mind is still in a panicked mess that he can't seem to gather together. Without thinking twice, he jumps out the window, trying to glide safely to the ground in his state. He lands near the sidewalk very ungracefully, splashing around in the rainwater to extinguish the fire that is eating at his cape. Even in the confused, fearful state he's in, he can sense that there are eyes on him. He's close to the road, and therefore close to the people walking the streets.

_'I can't be seen,' _he thinks over and over again. It's the only clear, totally normal thought he can grasp. He stumbles to his feet and manages to scale a building before he fumbles for the phone on him and calls home. Like always, Alfred answers, and Batman is able to squeeze out a few words to tell him that he needs help immediately. He can feel himself becoming weaker and weaker. The adrenaline is nearly worn off, but the intense fear isn't. He can still hear and feel the bats when he closes his eyes. Everything is still spinning and turning like a circus ride. His last thoughts before he goes under are centered on this Scarecrow and his mysterious, just as frightening partner.

* * *

**A/N: *Moans in embarrassment***

**UGH! I fudged up big time!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Still a bit embarrassed from my screw up yesterday, but I got inspired and wrote this up pretty quickly! It has a lot of Vieve angst in it and her reflecting on her relationship with her father (or lack thereof). I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

I march back to Wayne Manor from Arkham seething in anger. My teeth grind together violently as I clench my fists at my side over and over again. I want to reach out and punch something. I feel like raising hell and breaking shit. Today has been the worst day _ever_.

I went back to Arkham to give Crane some bullshit excuse as to why I won't be on as an assistant anymore, but I didn't have time. I spotted him talking with Blake outside his office. I almost approached them, but stopped myself at the last minute. She looked… different. The light and life that used to radiate off her had diminished. Now she looked brooding, serious, and angry. Her clothes were completely black. Sure, she's always worn black, but now it was all she was wearing. Before I could walk up to her to make sure she was okay, she turned from Crane to leave.

When our eyes met, her stoic face transformed into a scowl. She only glared at me for a few seconds before our eye contact broke and she rushed past me, hitting shoulders with me on her way out. That one bump sealed everything for me. In that moment, I felt something deep within me break as I realized that my best friend wasn't herself. Maybe she never would be again. Our friendship as I knew it could no longer exist while she was like this.

I gave Crane some muddled excuse about how I was falling behind in my studies and that I needed to quit working at Arkham to focus on my grades. He seemed to accept it without any problem. At least, I think he did. I was too busy rushing off to notice. I felt tears burn the corner of my eyes as I stormed out of the building, but I refused to let them fall. I don't cry. I haven't cried since… Well, since Mom died. Crying won't change a thing, as Mom used to tell me. Taking control of the situation, she said, is what really matters. I live by her words of wisdom.

The further I walked, the more my sadness transformed into a burning anger deep within the pit of my stomach. Crane must have something to do with this. I know he has to. He was the reason the patients in Arkham started to lose their minds. He's a master manipulator, and I just _know _that he has something to do with Blake's sudden change in behavior. He's someone she trusts, so if anyone would be able to cause such a change in her, it's him. She never visited Arkham before. Now she suddenly shows up? This has his handiwork written all over it.

The trouble is, I can't prove it this time around. There are no masks or gasses I can take a picture of. My only proof is a very changed Blake.

I dig my key into the lock and let myself in the front door. The first thing I notice is the lack of Alfred. He usually comes and greets me when he hears me enter. But now, he's nowhere to be found. Since I haven't eaten today, finding him is my top priority. I was also hoping to spill my troubles to him. I walk to the kitchen to see if he's in there.

Nope.

I walk to the living room, thinking he must be cleaning something or maybe even relaxing.

Nope.

With only one place left I can think of, I climb the stairs and go in the direction of my father's room. Just thinking of going there as a last resort fills me with nervousness. An invisible line has been marked in the sand since the day I arrived. He's in his corner and I'm in mine. We have a silent agreement not to venture over into each other's respective corner. I don't know how I know that. It's just a vibe we put off to each other that we both obey without question.

I gently twist the knob and open the door slowly.

"Alfred?" I call softly. When I walk through the doorway just a bit, I see Alfred standing over Mr. Wayne's bed. The lump in bed must be Mr. Wayne, I'm assuming. But that's not what confuses and troubles me. He should have been at work by now! Why is he's laying limp in his bed?

"Miss Genevieve," Alfred answers, sounding vaguely alarmed. I walk closer cautiously. Mr. Wayne is still limp in the bed, not acknowledging me at all. Concern rushes through me. Is he sleeping? Or is he unconscious? Perhaps he's sick and that's why Alfred and I talking isn't waking him up.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask, approaching the side of the bed. It's worse than I thought. At a distance, he seems fine. But up close, he looks like a mess. He's sweating and pale as a ghost. I want to reach out and put my hand on his forehead to see his temperature, but I restrain myself.

"He's fallen ill," Alfred explains. "It's only gotten worse since last night."

Last night? This happened last night and Alfred didn't bother to tell me? Some of my previously fading anger returns, but I do my best to stamp it out of my system while there is still time. This is not the right place to let my anger take control of me. It always comes at the worse possible times, it seems.

"I'll help you take care of him," I say simply. Alfred looks at me in shock. It must be hard to believe that I'd help take care of him willingly, but I feel a certain level of responsibility. This is the man who took me into his home. It's also probably the best foster home I've had in a while. I still feel like I owe him. Besides, I'm his daughter. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?

"You don't need to do that, Miss," he argues. I shake my head and sit by my father on his mattress.

"But I do, Alfred. Even if the two of us aren't exactly close, or even on speaking terms most of the time, he's still my father. I still feel a certain level of responsibility towards him."

Alfred gives me a small, sad smile. He's probably happy that I've admitted some type of affection for my father. It's true that the sole fact that he's my father gives me some attachment to him. Alfred and Mr. Wayne are close. Of course he's happy I'm deciding to interact with him, even if it's on a small scale like taking care of him while he's sick.

"What does he have?" I ask. Alfred shakes his head and looks down at Mr. Wayne.

"I don't know, Miss Genevieve. All I know is that I found him this way last night and he has not woken up since. He has mumbled some things in his unconscious state, but that is all."

I look back at Mr. Wayne. He looks so helpless and so incredibly weak, two things I've never associated him with. At the same time, he looks very peaceful as he sleeps. Some of the weight I've noticed he carries on his face is missing. He looks younger than he actually is.

Throwing caution to the wind, I reach out and smooth out his hair. It feels so natural. Mom used to do this when I was sick, and it somehow made me feel better, even if it did absolutely nothing to soothe my ailment. But, if it made me feel better, the least I can do is try to make him the most comfortable that I can. His hair has some sweat soaked in it, though I try to ignore that fact. I continue to run my hand down his dark hair and wonder when he'll wake up.

"I will go fetch you something to eat, Miss," Alfred says from behind me. "Knowing you, I assume you have yet to eat today." He knows me too well. I turn around and give him a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Alfred," I say sincerely. He's done so much for me since I came to Gotham. He made the transition a little easier with his comforting, grandfather-like presence. He's been my constant companion. I know he'll always be here for anything that I may need or any wisdom that I need to hear, and I really am grateful he's taken the time to get to know me as more than his boss's daughter. He has no idea how much that means to me.

"Alfred?" I call as he's walking out the door. He turns around to face me, just short of leaving the room.

"Yes, Miss?"

"Thank you for… everything. Thank you for being a friend."

My sudden confession brings a smile to his face as he gives me a small nod.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Genevieve. You really are more interesting than you give yourself credit for."

I blush and look back down at my father. Never have I thought of myself as anything special. Compliments are usually lost on me. But I can tell from Alfred's tone that he really means it. He thinks of me better than I think of myself.

I still have no idea about what my own father thinks of me. Will I ever, though? The two of us hardly speak. We don't know each other, and we never have. I still feel at times that I'm an intruder in someone else's home. I refer to this place as Wayne Manor or the manor. I have never once thought of it as a 'home'. I've never thought of any place as a home since the apartment I shared with Mom.

And I've never had a true parent since then.

* * *

We are currently entering day two of Mr. Wayne's mysterious illness, and things are just going more and more downhill from there. He hasn't woken up even once and he's murmuring words in his sleep. His looks weaker and more disheveled than he looked the day before. He's sweating profusely. He's cold and clammy. His complexion is that of a freshly dead corpse.

I'd never admit this out loud, but I'm seriously worried about him.

I know I have a right to be worried about him, considering the fact that he's my father, but it's still all new for me. Our lives have been completely separate until this point. Like I've said, he's on one side and I'm on the other. Our lives haven't intertwined. But now it has changed drastically.

I've practically moved myself into his room since he's fallen sick. I sleep on the couch at night and take care of him in the morning. I skipped school today to make sure he was alright and to be here if anything were to happen. I help Alfred feed him his meals. He'll swallow water and broth, but we can't force him to eat solid foods when he's in this state. We've made little to no progress, so we're forced to call in reinforcements. Fox will be coming soon to take a look at him and hopefully help bring him back to his normal state.

In between taking care of him and sleeping, I did make an attempt to call Blake.

Well, that's a lie. I made _three _attempts to call Blake.

She never picked up.

I feel pathetic, trying to call her after she made it clear that she's not going to answer me. I just hoped that maybe she was only having a bad day and that she'd pick up, laugh at my concern, and reassure me that she's perfectly okay and that we're still best buddies. I know she has her phone on her. She always does. She's choosing to ignore me, and I have no idea why. My best friend hates me and my father is on death's door. Life is really looking up, isn't it?

But I've done my best to remain positive. Fox is coming soon, and he's a genius from what Alfred has told me. If anyone should know what's wrong with Mr. Wayne, it's him. Right?

"Miss Genevieve," Alfred calls. I look up from my place next to Mr. Wayne's bedside and face Alfred, who has been just as worried about Mr. Wayne as me. He hasn't slept in so long that I'm starting to worry about him too.

"Yes? Do I need to help feed him again?" I ask. Alfred shakes his head and approaches me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"No, Miss. Mr. Fox has arrived and wishes to conduct his examination of your father in private. The two of us shall wait in the living room."

I open my mouth to argue with him, thinking I should be here for my father. But when I see the hopeful look on his face, I realize that arguing is pointless. He cares about my father just as much as I do, most likely even more. He'll follow any order Fox gives if that means Mr. Wayne's health will be restored. I shouldn't go against that.

He leads me out the door, but I take one more glance back to Mr. Wayne, looking so pitiful in his bed. It's sad that this is the most time we've spent together since I've arrived in Gotham City. A little part of me hopes that we'll be spending more time together once he's back on his feet. I also want him to actually be _awake_ if we do.

Mr. Fox passes us on the stairs, carrying a briefcase. I eye it warily. Briefcases often hide secrets, as I've come to learn.

"Don't worry," he assures us. "I'll do my very best."

I'm very tempted to say that your best just isn't good enough sometimes, but I hold my tongue. Now isn't the time for my negativity. I need to focus on my father's recovery. Yeah, he'll be fine. I just need to tell myself that and not stress about it.

Alfred gives Mr. Fox a short thank you and leads me all the way down the stairs. I feel myself tremble just a bit when I let my mind return to the possibility that Fox might not succeed. What will we do then? I don't even want to consider it. I _won't _consider it.

I curl up into a chair and tuck my feet in underneath me. Alfred sits on the couch across from me. I don't meet his eyes. I'm too busy worrying about Mr. Wayne to talk right now. I wish I had something to occupy my mind or at least keep my hands busy. All I have is my troubled thoughts that turn around in my head like a hurricane. No matter how hard I try, I'm not able to quell all my worries and frustrations that are suddenly emerging.

"Would you like anything to eat, Miss?" Alfred asks. I politely decline. I'm not sure I could force food down right now. I can't eat when I'm stressed. He gives me a knowing smile.

"I'm concerned about him also," he admits. "I've never seen him like this."

Oh, great, that was _just _what I needed; more reassurance that his condition is serious. Wonderful! I'm feeling so much better.

"But something else troubles you," he guesses. I lean back in my chair a little, looking at him curiously. How did he guess my emotions so correctly? He knows that Mr. Wayne's illness isn't the only thing on my mind. Sometimes it's scary how much Alfred knows about me and people in general. He's so good at reading people.

"I guess you're right," I admit. "I just can't help but think of…." I trail off, not sure what words to use. My stupid emotions are so complicated that I can't fathom them into coherent sentences. I'm such an emotionally unstable mess sometimes that even I barely know what exactly my emotions are

"I-I wish…" I groan in frustration, putting my hands through my hair.

"I just wish my father and I were friends!" I exclaim. Alfred doesn't interrupt me. He doesn't add his input. He just sits and listens to me spill my troubles.

"He and I don't even talk! I mean, I know that it's partially _my _fault, but I just wish that we could have some sort of bond that doesn't only occur when he's unconscious!"

By now, I'm nearly hysterical. More than a week's worth of unexpressed emotion is pouring out of me and dumping on poor Alfred, who has nothing to do with this mess. But I don't care. I need to tell someone, and it sure as hell won't be Mr. Wayne.

"He's my father, so of course I want some sort of relationship with him, but what if he doesn't want one with me?" I ask, my voice quieting towards the end of the sentence. He's shown little to no interest in even speaking to me, so what would make me think that he cares? Why should I attempt to have a good relationship with him if he won't put in any effort?

"I know your father very well," Alfred begins. "I've known him since the day he was born. And in all his years, I've never seen him as scared as I have when you came to us."

I look up and narrow my eyes at Alfred. What a great pep talk. So now my presence makes my father uncomfortable? That's just freaking wonderful. I can practically see the hope for a relationship with him fading off into the distance as we speak.

"He has no idea what being a father entails," Alfred continues. "The idea scares the wits out of him."

This piques my attention. So that's it. Mr. Wayne is as confused by this as I am. He doesn't know how to even begin our relationship.

Well, how about talking to me for a start?

"Thank you, Alfred," I say. I'm a little less confused than I was before, but at the same time, even more troubled and frustrated than I was to begin with. If Mr. Wayne does… _die _from this mysterious illness, then I will have lost my chance at forming any type of bond with him. If that happens, I know that I will never forgive myself for not taking the leap and initiating it before. I slide my body further into the chair and just hope that I'll get that chance.

* * *

I wake with a start when I feel someone shaking my shoulder gently. I don't remember falling asleep. When did I do that? I know I haven't been sleeping well lately, but unexpected naps are not my thing. I try to avoid them at all costs.

"What? What?" I ask in a groggy voice. When I look up, I see Alfred looking down at me with a smile on his tired face. It's a smile that I know can only mean one thing. Excitement settles in the pit of my stomach as I wait to be proved correct.

"Miss Genevieve, you father is awake," he confirms for me. An involuntary smile spreads across my face and I jump up out of the chair I'm sitting in.

"Really? How is he? Can I see him?"

Alfred laughs at my enthusiasm and nods at each word.

"He's just fine and you are allowed to see him now," he informs me. I don't have to be told twice. Without a second thought, I rush up the stairs to see my father, filled with joy as I realize that the worst of this is behind us. He's alright, and he's not leaving me anytime soon. I won't take this lightly. I meant what I said when I said I wanted to build some sort of relationship with him other than reluctant roommates.

I enter the room to see my father sitting up with Fox on the sidelines, watching him carefully. Fox look at me in the doorway with a smile on his face.

"Well, how are you doing, Miss Bancroft?" he asks cheerily. The mere fact that he used 'Bancroft' instead of 'Wayne' makes me smile back at him. Most people assume incorrectly on my last name.

"Much better now that I see my father is okay," I respond honestly, walking up to him. Mr. Wayne looks up at me. Our eyes meet and I search for something in his. I want to see anything. Is he happy to see me here? Did he reflect on our relationship like I did? Did the near death experience change anything for him? I just want some type of emotion from him other than indifference. Something! I'm an emotionally unstable teenage girl. All I want is a relationship with my father. That's all I've ever wanted.

He looks away.

My heart sinks at that one small action. When he goes back to talking to Fox like I'm not in the room, then my heart drops fully into my stomach and then down into my feet. I'm right here! I just ran in here and confessed that I was happy about his recovery, and he ignores me, talking to someone else like I'm not even in the room?

So much for that resolve to build a relationship.

* * *

**A/N: Vieve angst! I love it! I have to apologize to her for all that I put her through in this story. It's just unfair. I am truly a cruel writer. Like always, I hope you comment, follow, and favorite! See you next time!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Quick update! Actually, I wrote over half this chapter quite a while ago. So finishing it was no big deal! This chapter is best bud (aka Blake) approved... Keep that in mind. ;)**

**And this chapter has A LOT of cursing in this chapter. You've been warned. Don't sue me.**

* * *

_Third Person POV..._

Blake Demonte, or Demon as she is now known, adjusts her lace gloves on her hands as she walks across the factory floor of Arkham Asylum. Uncle Jon – Scarecrow, she corrects herself – told her to put her outfit on tonight and await further instructions. While she fought tooth and nail with Scarecrow to get a more comfortable outfit and had to compromise, she has now found that she enjoys the feeling of the lace against her hands and legs and the metal against her face. She loves the comfort she gets from her combat boots, which are her old pair, and the confidence the corset gives her.

She loves the confidence her mentor gives her.

Almost all her life, her parents have kept her at arm's length. They never bothered to give her the time of day. They never saw that all she wanted was to have a normal family and that she resented them heavily for their disinterest. But her uncle was always there. He took care of her and provided her with the attention a child needs to thrive. He gave her the distance she needed and recognized her dark personality was a part of who she was, while her parents tried to send her to a fucking therapist after she got into a fight at school. She never had any person in her life like her uncle before or since. Well, that is, until she met _Vieve_.

Her fists clench, and she slams one closed fist into the wall next to her. _Vieve_. Some friend _she _turned out to be. Sure, at first, everything was just peachy. The two listened to punk music blasted at the highest level at school in the morning, rocking out while people stared like they were weirdoes. They watched _Mulan _together and sang every lyric to 'I'll Make a Man Out of You' while stuffing their faces with popcorn. They laughed at PBG videos on YouTube and busted their guts laughing at their favorite best-worst-movie-ever, _Troll 2_. They talked almost entirely in inside jokes, leaving everyone around them utterly and hilariously confused.

But then, it started. Vieve changed subtly as each day passed. At first, it was just simple things like turning down her offers to hang out. Blake at first thought nothing of it, assuming she was only busy with the internship and school work. Then it transformed into missing calls and not calling until the next day. Then those rare calls became solely to inform Blake that she was too busy to talk. She always promised to call later, and Blake held out hope that she would.

She never did.

It's a routine Blake's seen before. She knows it all too well. When she was no longer the cute little kid who was easily put in a dress and bent to her parent's will, then the same crap Vieve is pulling happened to her. Only then, it started with more trips. Then there were less phone calls when they went on these trips. Then there were none at all. Years later, she barely sees either of them.

She refuses to let it go that far with Vieve. This time, she ended it before it could get that far.

"Demon!" she hears Scarecrow call. She spins around on the heels of her combat boots and crosses her arms over her chest, scowling at her mentor. When she's in 'Demon mode', she takes on the persona; angry, serious, brooding, and always ready to snap at the smallest provocation. It's a magnetized version of who she is.

That's another reason why she feels comfortable as Demon. She can be the dark, angry, chaotic person she is at heart and not be looked down upon for it. In fact, it's encouraged.

"What?" she hisses. Scarecrow merely smiles at her temper. After all, it's her temper that got her this job. She has no problem with channeling her anger to attack the likes of Batman and others who threaten him. Her guard dog nature makes her the natural fighter.

"She's coming tonight," he says confidently. "I'm sure of it."

She narrows her eyes at Scarecrow. He seems so sure of himself, but she wants to argue that if anyone knows Vieve better, it's her.

_Not anymore, _she reminds herself. _She's not the same person I knew_.

"And you remember your end of the deal?" she asks expectantly. It was the main reason she agreed to don this costume and join him. He promised her anything she wanted in return, and she made him swear to one thing and one thing only.

"Yes, I do," he agrees. "I promise I will not kill her."

He'd better not. If he does, then she will make sure Vieve isn't the only dead body by the end of the night.

"Alright then," she relents. Taking her fist in her hand, she cracks her knuckles and stretches her arms out. She's ready for some action.

"Let's get the fun started."

* * *

_Vieve's POV..._

Mr. Wayne is officially out of bed and in his pajamas and bathrobe, walking around the house. I'm happy about his progress. I really am, don't get me wrong. Why wouldn't I be? He's up and healthy and definitely not dying anytime soon. So I should be thrilled.

Then why am I so pissed off?

I'm still simmering in anger even twenty minutes after he has woken up, and it's only gotten stronger with each passing minute. But the funny thing is, I don't know why exactly I'm so angry. Maybe it's the fact that he ignored me when he woke up. Maybe it's the fact that my best friend has been avoiding me like the plague. Maybe it's just the constant stress from the past few days that have finally come collapsing down on me. Whatever it is, it hit me hard and fast, growing and growing and only making me this much closer to doing some damage. I'm about ready to explode and break something.

Let's just hope that whatever it is, it won't be too expensive.

"You look frustrated," a voice says from behind me. I jump in my place in the study and face my father, who looks better than ever. The fact that he disrupted my thoughts is enough to make me want him to go away. His presence makes me distinctly uncomfortable, though I don't know why. All I know is that right now, I don't want to be near him or anyone else, for that matter.

He frowns at my lack of an answer and moves forward. On instinct, I move backward to restore the distance. When people get close to me, the first thing I want to do is move away. Especially when I'm this angry.

Why is he even here? Shouldn't he be getting ready for the party or something?

"We…" he trails off nervously and scratches the back of his neck. I raise my eyebrows. Is he going to say something or is this going to be a guessing game? I never know what he wants. Maybe that's because he never bothers to actually approach me like he's doing now. I'm caught off guard.

"We need to talk," he finally manages to say. My anger rises despite my attempts to calm it. He wants to _talk_? Now? Doesn't he think it's a little late for that? I've been here, at his disposal for about two weeks now, and he hasn't once said he wants to 'talk'. He chose quite a wonderful moment to want to speak to me.

"No we don't," I insist. It's not like me to get sassy with my caretaker. At least, not anymore. But I just don't see the point in talking to him while I'm this angry. Things will spout out of my mouth that I will regret. I prefer to minimize the wreckage I cause with my sharp tongue. I've done terrible things with it before.

I turn to walk out, but I hear Mr. Wayne's voice behind me before I can get anywhere.

"You need to stop pushing people away!" he exclaims.

I stop dead in my tracks.

So much for controlling my anger.

I wheel around and look at him harshly. I look at him, and I mean really look at him for the first time since I've met him. I stare at his face and try to determine his motive here. _I_ push people away? That's just rich coming from Mr. 'Barely-Talks-To-His-Own-Daughter'! Why the hell does he care if I push him away? He didn't take interest in me until this very moment, right after I've finished taking care of him while he was practically. It's like a flip switched in him, even though I never told him that I was the one at his bedside day and night. And now suddenly he wants me to _stop pushing people away?_

"You have no right," I whisper. My anger is barely concealed. He doesn't know me. He never has. He never made the effort like Blake and Alfred and Lucinda all did. Out of all of the people in my life, he should have been the one to try the hardest to have a relationship with me, and what did he do? He kept me at arm's length, like fatherhood is an optional endeavor. He treated me like I was just a guest in his home, not his _own_ _fucking daughter_.

He walks closer to me. I take a big step back. The message I'm sending him is clear. He needs to let go of the subject and stay away from me before he takes it too far. He's getting pretty damn close. He doesn't have any right to be saying any of this shit. He hasn't earned the right. Does he not think that I already _know _that I push people away? Does he not realize that I _need _to, to protect myself?

He takes a deep breath like he's containing rage too. Maybe that's where I get it from. Thanks a lot, genetics! Why didn't I get my mother's kind, forgiving heart and ability to remain calm?

"I'm trying," he says. His voice is nearly pleading. "I really am." I don't believe him. If he were trying, he'd talk to me more than an average of once a day. He'd ask me about how school's going. He'd want to know what I did those fifteen fucking years I wasn't in his life. He hasn't made the effort. Why should I?

"This conversation is over," I say calmly. In truth, I'm trying my hardest not to blow up at Mr. Wayne. So, I do what I always do when I'm about to wreck my chances at controlling my anger; I walk away. I turn on my heels and head for the door, intending on locking myself in my room for the rest of the night. The only way to diffuse this bomb is to take me out of the equation. I'm done with this.

"Just because your mom died doesn't mean you should make yourself miserable because you think everyone will leave you!" I freeze in my place, my hand on the doorknob. I squeeze it so hard it must be leaving imprints on my palm.

He didn't. He fucking didn't.

But oh, he did.

He went there with me. He crossed the line. He stepped over the wall I had in place over my past. He didn't just step over it. He obliterated it. He destroyed it and brutally ripped off my eight year old Band-Aid. And it hurts. It hurts more than anything has ever hurt before. He betrayed me by pointing out something I have made clear is my sore spot. He used my worst memory, the thing that makes me isolate myself from everyone, and threw it back in my face.

And I hate him for it.

I let go of the doorknob, turn around, and march right up to him. I keep my distance, but make sure our faces are close enough so I can stare right through his eyes. I make sure he can see all the hurt, the anger, and the anguish he put there himself. I want him to see the wreckage his careless words have caused.

"Fuck you," I hiss. His face falls suddenly and he steps forward, like he regrets what he said. Too fucking late. I take a huge step back. I don't want this man near me. I don't want to be in the same room as him. I feel as though the walls are pushing us closer together until I can't even breathe. Even being in the city limits is too close to him for me. He's scum. Every nice, kind, warm feeling I ever had for him is gone just as quickly as they came.

"Vieve-,"

"Fuck you!" I shout it this time. I don't care who hears. I don't care if Alfred hears us and barges in. I don't care if I make a scene. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care!

"Don't you dare fucking call me that! That name doesn't belong to you! This whole thing is your fault anyway! You wanna know why my mom died? You really wanna know what it is that made me this screwed up? Well, buddy, I'm looking at him!" He snaps back, recoiling like he's been slapped.

_Good._

"Yep! It's _you_, Wayne. You're the one who hauled your ass back to Gotham and left my mother pregnant and alone. You didn't even have the decency to call. Not to check up on her. Not even to break up with her. Nope! She had no fucking idea what happened to your sorry ass! She tried to track you down, but NO! You were gone. I guess you didn't care for her all that much, did you? Did you?!"

"I loved her!" he yells back. I shake my head. Hot tears are falling down my cheeks. They're not from sadness. They're from the sheer anger I feel. I'm shaking from the feeling. It makes my head hurt. He has the audacity to claim his love for my mother for the first time since I've been here when _he_ was the one who left _her_? The jackass!

"No you didn't!" I shout back louder. The tears just keep coming and coming. I haven't allowed myself to cry in years. This is the first time I've been so out of control of my emotions that I've cried, but there's no point in stopping the river that flows down my face. I'm beyond pissed by now. I've never been more enraged in my entire life.

"She had to quit school because _you_ knocked her up! She had to get a bunch of shitty jobs just to support me! And you know who she met at one of those shitty jobs? My even shittier step-father. Then – surprise, surprise – he smacks us around and then blows her head off when she tries to leave! And who does this all lead back to? Who put these events into motion with their actions?"

He knows the answer as well as I do. I point to him accusingly.

"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! This is all your fault. You're the reason I push people away. You're the reason I'm scared I'll feel what I felt after Mom died. You're the reason she died in the first place! So don't you dare say you fucking _loved _my mother. You abandoned her. You abandoned us both, you complete and utter BASTARD!"

I push him on the chest as hard as I can. I want him to feel even a fraction of the hurt I feel. The tears are blurring my vision as they fall harder. I'm not strong enough to do any sort of damage to him, but I don't care. I'm pissed off and all I know is that he deserves to hurt like I do. I shove at him again and hit his chest over and over with all my might. He just takes the hits and stares down at me like I'm some lost puppy. I look back up at him and narrow my eyes through my tears. Fuck him! I'm not some pathetic little creature!

I mutter one more 'fuck you' for good measure before turning my back on him. I rush out of the study and slam the door shut behind me. I don't just leave my father behind in that room. I leave every hope I ever had for a life here. I refuse to live in this home when he's in it, making me feel like shit every time he looks me in the eyes. He lost his chance, and I just lost mine.

I run for the front entrance and grab my favorite leather jacket off the hanger, putting it on hastily. I grab my bag off the table and put the strap over my shoulder. I wipe my tears off my face while I'm at it. I don't want anyone to see the evidence and question me on it. I don't want anyone to think I'm a pathetic mess, because I'm not. I'm not the messed up kid everyone makes me out to be. He made me like this. It's all his fault. _All his fault._

I rush out the door without a second thought. As soon as my feet hit the pavement and I see Wayne manor fade into the distance behind me, I'm a girl on a mission. I don't give a fuck about what happens to me. I don't care about all the crime that riddles Gotham's streets. I don't care that my pepper spray is empty. Nothing matters anymore. I'm upset, angry, and heartbroken. There's only one person I want to see. I don't care about Crane's suspicious hold over her or her sudden disdain for me. She's the only one who could possibly understand me in the least, and I need to reach her.

I'm going to see Blake if it's the last thing I do.

* * *

**A/N: More Vieve angst, and even some Blake angst! So SHE'S basically having a mental breakdown... I'm so mean to my characters. *devious smile* I mean, she's basically reconsidering her life and going through all her emotions that she buried away for 8 years... Yeah, tough stuff.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I'm losing a lot of sleep to post this. BE GRATEFUL! And this was a bit of an emotional, kind of 'touchy-feely' chapter (hint, hint: it involves Vieve's mom) so... yeah. Hope you enjoy my work written when I should be sleeping!**

**And to DarkPhoenixFire... I got your Star Wars reference. Completely. And I loved it. You DOUBTED that I got it? *proceeds to force-choke you* I find your lack of faith in my nerdy-ness... disturbing.**

* * *

I march right in to Arkham with my bag clutched tightly at my side. My fingers are gripping the strap so tightly that I bet they're turning white. My body still trembles from head to toe in the anger I feel. It consumes me entirely. I wish I could just punch something. Maybe I'd feel better then.

On my way in the building, I can focus on nothing except seeing Blake's face. I want to see her, talk to her, and figure out why she's been ignoring me. After what we've been through together and the things I told her that I never tell _anyone _else, I deserve that much. I want my damn explanation, and I refuse to leave without one.

Only one person will know for sure where she is. _Crane._

I spot him standing over by a large window. It's a one-way glass into one of the holding cells. I remember people being held in there before when I was here. It was always the severe cases that needed to be observed. It's suicide watch.

With a glare firmly fixed on my face, I approach him. He turns around at the sound of my footsteps and smiles when he sees me. I wish more than anything that I could just punch him in the face and wipe that stupid, fake smile off his face. He deserves it.

"It's nice to see you again, Genevieve," he says, though I can tell his tone is fake. He tolerates me, but he doesn't want me here. I raise my eyebrows defiantly, giving him my 'oh, really?' look. My disgust for him is very, very, _very _thinly veiled. Why hide it? I don't work for him anymore, and I _will _expose him at the first opportunity I get. I don't have to pretend to respect this man that I despise.

"Where is Blake?" I ask bluntly. I can hear the man inside the cell muttering 'scarecrow' over and over again. So, Crane has struck again. Why does that not surprise me?

Before he can answer, I tick my head over to the poor sap he drove to insanity.

"What's his deal, Crane?" I ask. "Everyone keeps flipping over this 'scarecrow' around here. Big coincidence, huh?"

In my anger, I've just revealed myself. He now knows that I either know about him or suspect him to be doing what he's doing. I've put a target on my back. But I don't care. He's going down soon. When I get my head clear, I'll be turning over my pictures to the proper authorities. That's the hardest task of them all. I don't know any police officer that I could trust.

Hell, I might turn this over to freaking _Batman_ if I can be unfortunate enough to see him again.

"As you can clearly see, there is nothing coincidental about his symptoms," Crane says slowly, like I'm a very slow five year old. I glare at him, resenting his tone. I know quite a freaking lot about psychiatry, thank you very much, and I know damn well that his symptoms are not coincidental. They were _caused _by Crane himself. He truly is insane. He was driven there, though.

Then I finally get a good look at the man in the window. I see his face, all the lines and creases and the short, light colored hair. Despite his disturbed state, I know that face. I've seen it in the newspapers so much lately that I know that face better than I know my own father's, as depressing as that sounds.

The man is none other than Carmine Falcone, the notorious mob boss of Gotham.

I turn back to face Crane. Now it's all connecting. All the criminals who got off with insanity, Falcone's presence here, all of them muttering about a 'scarecrow'…

He must have some sort of deal with the mob. And whatever it is, it didn't end nicely for _them_. He's working for someone else on the side, perhaps. Or maybe just for himself.

"Where is Blake?" I demand once again, my voice harsher. I'll expose him at my first opportunity after this. I will head straight for the police department, hand the photo on my phone to the first trustworthy looking officer I see, and then hightail is out of there. I will make sure I'm not numero uno on Crane's hit-list. At least, not for too long. But first, I need to see Blake.

I need to see her before I lose that chance.

"You would like to see her?" he asks evenly. I scowl at him for prolonging this conversation. I don't want to talk to him any longer than I absolutely have to. I give a sharp nod to answer him.

"Very well, then. Just follow me. I'll take you to her."

Every fiber of my being screams at me not to follow him anywhere. My mind tells me to run as fast and as far as possible. I don't trust him in the least. To put any amount of trust in him would be to go against my very nature. How could I?

But then another part of me yearns to see Blake. If not to smooth things out with her, then to say my last goodbyes to my best friend. I deserve some sort of closure, right? Maybe she'll tell me what it is that I did wrong or why she's ignoring me.

So, with my body feeling as heavy as lead, I follow Crane as he leads me to the elevator. Once we're inside, I keep my distance from him. Being near him is like being near a monster. You wonder what missteps will cause him to turn on you. He's like a ticking time bomb that could go off at any second.

The doors close and Crane hits a button. As soon as his finger makes contact with that button, my heart drops into my stomach. I was so sure that I wanted to see Blake, and I still am. I want to see her badly. But, there is one other thing I know. Crane is never to be trusted. He's an evil genius who does these terrible things to his patients and feels no remorse or regret at all. And I willingly stepped into an enclosed space with him, going to who knows where.

I've made a horrible decision.

I'm an idiot, I'm and idiot, I'm _such _and idiot! It's too late to say that I want out and rush out of the building. The thing is already moving. I have no choice but to stay here, stay calm, and wait this out. Here. Next to Crane. _In an enclosed space._

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm nervous as hell.

Finally, the elevator jolts to a stop. I stand rigidly in my place, just waiting for the creaky door to open. Even in an asylum, this is still the Narrows. It's broken down, old, and in need of repairs. This elevator is a death trap in of itself. Not to mention the fact that I'm sharing the space with a sociopath.

He walks out quickly as soon as it opens, and I follow him despite my previous revelation that I've made a terrible, terrible mistake. I'm in too deep now. Besides, if he is my only chance to find Blake, then I have to risk it. Otherwise, I'll never be able to speak to her. If I were to hop back on the elevator now, he'd most likely stop me. There's no point. I need to follow him now. I'm in a corner here with no choice.

The hallway he leads me down is dimly lit and creepy. Every scene from every horror movie I've ever watched flashes in my mind at this very moment. It gives me an even worse feeling than I had when we were stuck in that elevator together, believe it or not. He leads me to the very end of it, past a doorway, and to a balcony of sorts.

"This is where we make the medication that the _patient_ you saw was on," he says calmly, stressing the word 'patient'. He knows I recognized Falcone. I don't know how. My face must have given me away. I look down from the balcony, suddenly feeling my nervousness increase. There, on the factory floor, some totally sane-looking patients in their orange jumpsuits are pouring liquid into barrels that go through pipes, making some sort of gas rise from them. My eyes widen as I realize that what I'm seeing here is closely related to what I saw in Crane's briefcase. This is the liquid that he turns into a gas. This is the hallucinogen that he uses to make his patients crazy.

And he's lead me right to it.

_I'm next_.

I back away slowly, reeling in terror. He's going to hit me with his fear gas. I can't let this happen to me! I refuse to make this easy for him. I can't give in.

"Perhaps you should try some," he says calmly, not even turning around. "Clear your head."

With that, I rush back to the hallway to escape him. My heart beat wildly as I think of any way out of this. How do I get out of here? I don't know this part of Arkham! I need to escape now, before he catches me and hits me with the hallucinogen. I don't want to be in Falcone's place in suicide watch!

I can hear footfalls of his cronies coming to get me, but that only makes me run faster. My determination to not be his next victim increases. I pass the elevator without a second thought. That would be a dumb way out. It takes forever to close and you can easily get on it if you want to get to someone. That would be the quickest way to get caught and gassed.

There _has _to be another exit around here somewhere. There's always a way out, right? I run all the way down the hallway, trying to open some of the doors I see lining the hallways. They're all locked, no matter how hard I pull and push. Panicked, I grab my pepper spray out of my purse. Then I remember, it's empty. Oh god, it's _empty_. How do I manage to defend myself now?!

One man comes rushing towards me, and all I see in the flash of orange before I come charging after him, holding my empty pepper spray can like a life-line. With or without actual pepper spray in this thing, I'm not going down without a fight. I can push my fear down and not focus on it. I hit him in the head with the empty can, hearing him growl in anger. The can has to hurt, and because it's empty, I have to rely on the can itself to protect me.

I hit him over and over again, aiming for his forehead each time while placing a hand on his chest to keep him further from me so he can't grab me. I know I can do some damage with this thing, and I'm looking to inflict as much as humanly possible.

I shove him against the wall, get one more, hard hit in, and then run in the opposite direction. If I need to fight everyone in this damn place off, then so be it! I am _not _being taken by Crane and driven to insanity by his fear gas. I run faster and faster, picking up momentum until I feel my body bump into something. More like _someone_. I raise my can to strike, but whoever it is gets me in a headlock, holding me away from their body. I squirm and struggle, determined to break away from whoever this is and kick their ass for doing this to me. But they're too strong for my struggle.

Then, I see Crane coming close to me from his spot on the balcony, wearing his mask as he strides closer. No, no, no! This isn't how it's supposed to end! I was supposed to see Blake, leave this place for good, and then deliver my evidence to the police so I could see Crane go down for what he's doing. I'm always careful, always making sure that I'm one step ahead. How could I let this happen to me? How could I turns from his downfall into his victim?

"Sanity is only a temporary condition," the person behind me whispers in my ear. Wait, I know that voice! I completely know that voice –

Gas hits my face, and I cough and choke on it. I can feel it constricting my airways and filling my lungs. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't focus on anything but the gas filling my senses and restricting my air. I gasp, trying to catch my breath, when I finally look at Crane.

Everything is blurred around the edges and fuzzy, except Crane's face. Bugs are crawling out of his mask, crawling all over the burlap of the mask, some even flying towards me. Everything becomes distorted and seems to jump at me like it's coming after me. Intense fear that I have _never_ felt before fills me up quickly until I can feel my body shake.

I let out a scream of terror while I try to shield myself from these bugs flying at me. My heart thumps wildly and I want to reach into my head and rip my hair out from this fear that I can't even put into coherent words. It's so overpowering, so real, and so strong, that I can't comprehend it.

I vaguely feel my body being picked up and taken somewhere, but it's like I'm not even in my body. All I can do is stare at the ceiling and watch it ripple and blur above me while I feel as though I could cry all the tears in my body. But I can't. I just can't.

My body is set down on a table, and I close my eyes. I want to block this out, to make it go away somehow, but even with my eyes closed, I still feel the fear coursing through my veins and I can't make it go away. I would give anything to make it go away. _Anything_.

Voices sound off around me, but I can't hear them. Not really. I'm too wrapped up in this warped, twisted world that I'm in to really hear them. I struggle to, but nothing seems to get through to my brain. I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't sense anything except this fear coursing through my veins. But, in my state, I still try to listen in the best that I possibly can.

_"… the body can only take so much," _I hear. The voice is distorted, like a very twisted, demonic sounding Darth Vader, and it makes me want to scream out in terror again. But I can't. My airways can't seem to manage it. No matter how hard I try, I can't.

_"… You said you wouldn't kill her!" _another voice adds in. In a twisted way, I know this voice. In a very, very twisted way that I can't even manage to grasp.

_"… had to be done," _the original voice shouts back. I grab my head and twist my hands through my hair. Everything hurts. My head is pounding so hard that I can't even hear anything anymore. There's too much. There's too much going on. I can't focus, I can't hear, I can't even think. I can feel everything fading to black in my mind. I'm losing my grip… on reality? Or on my consciousness? Maybe both…

* * *

"Baby… Baby, wake up…"

I open my eyes at the sound of the voice. I'm in some… Actually, I don't know where I am. My eyes focus in on the face to the voice that called out to me. I know that voice. I know it as well as my own, even if I haven't heard it in years.

"Mom," I choke out. I can see her above me. I see her fiery red hair that stretches down and tickles my cheeks. I can see her bright green eyes full of exuberance. I can see her porcelain skin with her cheeks tinted red and freckles scattered on her nose. Her usual smile graces her face.

"Hey, Vieve," she says casually, like she hasn't been dead for years. I reach up and touch her face, my head in her lap.

"Mom, you're here," I say giddily. My joy outweighs any fear that I had previously. Then, I think of something alarming.

"Does that mean that I'm dead?" I ask. Strangely enough, her presence makes me not fear my own death. At least I'll be with her. She always makes everything better. She would always turn my miserable days into miracles. She had the ability to make everything seem okay, no matter what. I've missed her so much over these past eight years. Now I can be with her again always.

She laughs and strokes my hair like she always used to do.

"No, hon, you're not dead. You're just out of your body. You're not even unconscious."

I deflate a little bit in disappointment. I've never been all that religious – it's not even something I've ever given much thought to – but I had some hope that maybe, just maybe, this was the afterlife and I was seeing Mom again for real. But no, it's just a hallucination. This isn't really Mom.

But I can pretend she is.

"Now, are you gonna tell me why you blew up at your father?" she asks reprovingly. I look down in slight shame. I'm still mad at my father, but that doesn't mean I don't regret what the terrible things I said. I put the weight of Mom's death on him. I said awful, vile things that I will never be able to take back. All my emotions just gathered up after festering for years upon years and when my father said something that made me angry, they all came spewing out directed towards him.

It wasn't until then, in that moment, that I realized how I never really talked about how I felt after Mom died. I just… went on autopilot. I thought it was the only way to recover. Besides, who would listen to me? My foster parents didn't care. I didn't have Lucinda. I had no friends.

Who would listen to my feelings? There's was _no one_.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say. "He brought you up and I just lost it on him…"

She tucks my hair back behind my ears and gives me an easy smile.

"I always said you were too much like him for your own good. Didn't I say that?" She grins again and ruffles my hair a bit. I giggle and try to slap her hand away.

"Moooommmm, you know I don't like that!" She laughs and does it again to spite me.

"That's why it's so fun!" she laughs. We giggle together like old times, before she got married and when we were just on our own. They were the best days of my life. We would do this all the time, just laughing around over random stuff and rolling around the couch like idiots. Her laughter stops, but she keeps her hand on my hair soothingly.

"Okay, now I'm gonna get all serious and say some 'mom things', so listen up." I stop laughing too, but I can't help but smile at her words. They're so typical of Mom; her serious moments always have a dash of humor added in to lighten the mood.

She strokes my hair and smiles down at me sadly.

"Baby, you've gotta stop going on like this," she says. "You keep all your feelings buried deep inside and never tell anyone how you feel. I want you to be happy, not so angry and sad and guarded. That's no way to live. I want you to let someone in again without the fear of them dying constantly in the back of your head. You deserve better, hon. Don't let losing me get in the way of living your life to the fullest. Love is a wonderful thing, not something to be feared."

I grab her hand in my hair and hold onto it tightly. She's right. I know she's right. But how can I just _let _myself feel that pain again? I thought that by keeping myself guarded I was being strong, getting through it. I thought I was dealing with my problems. No one ever taught me how to deal with them the right way! I was eleven when I decided to take this into my own hands. I dealt with it the only way I knew how. I guarded myself against love. To me, this was how to make sure I didn't feel hurt. It was a defense mechanism.

"I know," I whisper. "I know that I have to deal with this the right way this time."

She smiles and nods. Her smile has always been dazzling and huge; it's almost too large for her dainty face.

"Good. And you've gotta fix things with your dad, hon! You two are stubborn mules living in a house together, and that's always a recipe for disaster. You have to let him in. I know that he hasn't exactly been talking to you, but you haven't really been talking to him either, baby. You need to take the first step. Be brave! I raised you that way."

I nod vigorously in response, clutching her hand again. It feels warm, like she's right here with me.

"I'm gonna try," I promise. I would do anything for her. She's always been right. She has always known exactly what I need.

"Good. You'd better! And always, always remember that I love you, okay Vieve? I love you more than I've ever loved anything in my entire life. I'm so proud of the strong, stubborn, spunky girl you've become." I nod again and clutch her hand tighter, like it's my only grip on the sanity I can feel slowly slipping away.

"Bye, baby," she says sadly. No! Not a goodbye. This can't be a goodbye. I sit up, panicking at the thought of losing her all over again. This time, it'll be right in front of my eyes. Can I take that? If anything will make me lose my mind for good, it's _this_.

"No, Mom, no!" I shout. Her figure starts to fade and dissipate to nothing but mist in front of me, like a cloud. I reach out and try to grab on to her, to keep her from disappearing completely, but to no avail. She's slipping through my fingers, fading away into the distance, like she was never even here.

"MOM!" I shout. "Don't leave me again!"

It's too late to save her now. She's gone. My mom is gone again, and I could do nothing to stop it. Not then, not now. Nothing has changed.

I snap my eyes back open. Suddenly, I'm back in the real world. Or, at least, I think it's the real world. In a car. In a place I don't know. I don't know what's going on. I only know one thing; Mom is gone. She was always gone, though. Wasn't she?

"Hold on!" a voice besides me says. I barely register it. All I know is that the world is fading away again. Only this time, it's for real. I'm slipping into unconsciousness. I can feel it. My world is turning to black, and I feel so tired. I'm so, so tired. I just want rest. That's all I want…

"VIEVE!" the voice next to me screams out desperately. But it's too late. I'm too far gone to hear anything more.

Am I dead _now_?

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**A/N: If you liked Rachel Dawes, then I apologize... ****Okay, no I don't. ****It's not that she doesn't EXIST in this universe. It's that she's just not a major part of the action. At all. But anyways, leave a review if you liked it, what you liked about it and what not. See you next time, my lovely readers! (I feel my most sentimental when I should be sleeping)**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Quick-ish update, right? When was the last time I updated...? Eh, I don't know. What I DO know is that after I post this, I'm going to bed and passing out cold. Yeah, I'm THAT tired. Maybe that's why this chapter gets kind of sentimental. I get my most sentimental when I'm tired. Enjoy!**

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A groan escapes my mouth as my head clears suddenly. The sleepiness and the black is fading away, giving in to the real world. Crap; I hate the real world.

Like the universe was listening and felt like screwing with me, my head suddenly throbs as though I've been hit by a train. What happened to me? This pain is intense, blocking out any logical thought from reaching my brain. What is the last thing I remember? Not even opening my eyes, I search my scattered memory and try to pull out my whereabouts before this. It's all a jumbled mess of nothingness. Then, it hits me like the train I felt already rammed into me.

Crane.

Gas.

_Mom._

I snap open my eyes to see a figure looming over me. My first thoughts drift around to what happened to me at Crane's hands, and I back away from the threatening shape above me. The silk sheets on my bed scrunch up as I try my best to distance myself from whatever it is that looms over me. No matter how tired and beaten down I am, I'm still on survival alert and will fight with all that I have.

"Relax," the deep, raspy voice says. As soon as I hear the voice, I do as he commands and let my shoulder slump forward, letting myself out of my defensive position. I remember that voice clearly. There is no other person on Earth with that voice. _Batman._

"How'd you get me here?" I ask, my voice hoarse. It all makes sense now. He must have been the one to get me from Crane's and take me back here.

"I snuck you in through the back," he answers matter-of-factly. "Your father never knew I was here."

I let out a sigh of relief. After our fight, the last thing I want is for my father to know the trouble I got in. If at all possible, I will make sure he doesn't know about anything I did tonight. Ever. This disaster is better kept a secret. I close my eyes momentarily to take this all in. It's all so… overwhelming. I don't know how to deal with these things suddenly being thrust at me. Some of the memories of Crane's fear gas are slowly starting to come back to me. More importantly, the voice I heard before going under.

_Blake's_ voice.

Looks like I did get to see her after all.

I've never felt so betrayed before in my life. It makes me unbelievably angry on top of gut-wrenchingly sad. My best friend held be back while I got hit with fear gas that drove me to the brink of absolute insanity. I can't believe that the Blake I knew would do something like that to me. But maybe… Maybe this Blake isn't the Blake I knew. She's a different Blake. She's a darker, manipulated Blake that I don't know. I don't how her at all. All I know is that I want the old one back.

I open my eyes with the intent on thanking Batman for helping me. But, just like last time, he's gone. I roll my eyes. Seriously? Is the dude adverse to saying goodbye? All I wanted to do was thank him. Oh well. He probably doesn't take anyone's thanks anyway.

I glance over to the alarm clock by my side. It's only 11:00, which means Mr. Wayne's party should either be starting now or already be in full swing. Wonderful; I'm gassed yet still don't miss the party? Damn.

Okay, yes, I know that I could not go and then pass our fight off as an excuse as to why I stayed in bed, but I want to be on good terms with him. Well, at least good enough terms so we won't be plotting to rip each other's throats out. That would probably require me to attend just to be polite. I'm tempted to say hell with it and just bury my face into my pillow until morning. But, alas, I'm trying to be a 'good person'. And as far as I can tell, this is going to be hard.

Rolling out of the comfy sanctuary of my bed for to hard ground, I groan again. Why can't I just sleep for the rest of the night? I'm so impossibly exhausted from what I experienced. Still, I stumble over to my closet and throw it open. I know I have more than one dress in here. Alfred insisted that not only does a lady need a dress, but that she needs more than one. To that, I insisted that I wasn't any lady.

I grab a dress and start to change into it. It's a dark blue, strapless one with a ruffled bottom and has a silver, pine needle-like design staring at the left side at the top, going down to my waist and then slanting down and crossing my lower waist, making its way over to my right hip before stopping just as it wraps around my back. I promised to burn any dress before being made to put it on after the 'dinner from hell', but this one actually… dare I say, flatters me. The dark blue goes well against my pale skin, and my brown, slightly auburn hair looks even more beautiful than usual. It's my best feature, and the dress only enhances it. Even my hazel eyes somehow look better in this dress. I'd say it's good enough for this party. At least, it is by my standards. And I do have pretty low standards… Eh, if they hate it, then whatever. I don't care as long as I like it.

I manage to slip it on and zip it up in the back. I grab my brush from the nightstand and brush out my long, knotty hair. Gripping it tightly in my hands, I put it up into a uniformed bun using hair bands I always keep on my wrist. It's a meticulous habit of mine. If it's a special occasion, my hair has to be up in a bun so it won't get knotted or frizzy.

My makeup is scarce and light, but I do what I can to my plain face while in front of the bathroom mirror. Soon enough, I look presentable enough to walk downstairs without seeming like a street urchin who somehow snuck in to crash the party. I smirk at the thought. I should have pulled that when I was younger and not filthy rich.

I pin lose hairs behind my ears, giving myself a weak smile in the mirror. I'm determined to use this as my chance to make up with my father. I know the process will be slow, and maybe we won't even get past being anything but a few steps up from what we were before, but that's better than nothing.

After all, I promised Mom I'd at least try.

These flats that go with the dress are hideous, though. They're silver and sparkly with little silver bows on top. I shudder just looking at the things. Sparkles and bows are so…

_Girly_.

I don't do girly. Not at all. Even this dress is pushing it. The ugly shoes tip the scale. By the end of the night, I'll be wearing a beat up pair of black converse. I can just see it now, the weird stares I'll get when I run upstairs, only to run down with converse paired with a fancy dress. The thought makes me smile. Maybe I'll do that. The looks on the faces of those high-society stiffs would be hilarious.

Tentatively, I leave my room and head for the stairs. Too late to turn back now, I remind myself. Oh, how I hate parties… But I have to go. I force myself down the steps, hearing the soft sounds of the party going in a room close by. It must be in the ball room. Luckily, I actually know where that part is. I know that you have to pass through the study/library to get there. So I quickly scuttle off towards that area, doing my best to make sure my hair remains in place and my dress remains straight and unwrinkled.

When did I turn into such a _girl_?

I have to stop outside the door of the study to adjust the zipper of my dress. It must have not zipped up enough, because I can feel it slowly slipping downwards on my torso. That would have been a disaster if I hadn't caught it now. I can just imagine all the old rich ladies looking at me in horror while my dress starts to slide off my body in the middle of the party. While grabbing the zipper and pulling it upwards, I hear faint voices coming from the study. But no one should be in there. At least not guests. Only Mr. Wayne and Alfred go in there. Does that mean I'm about to beat Mr. Wayne to his own party?

Curiously, I lean my ear closer to the door and listen to the conversation going on inside. The voices become clearer and clearer.

"What would you call _that_?" I hear Alfred's voice ask impatiently.

"Damn good television," Mr. Wayne's voice answers. What are they talking about?

"It's a miracle no one was killed," Alfred retorts. Okay, what catastrophic thing happened while I was out cold? Damn, I miss everything cool!

"Didn't have time to observe rules of the road, Alfred," Mr. Wayne says, his voice sounding preoccupied.

Wait just a minute.

Mr. Wayne caused whatever it is they're talking about? But I thought he was right here the whole time. What did he do? Did he get into a car accident or something? I press my ear even closer and listen more intently.

"You're getting lost inside this monster of yours. You have a daughter to look after now. You can't put this above her."

_His monster? _I swear, if I find out he's secretly an alcoholic or druggie or anything of that sort…

"I'm not putting it above her," Mr. Wayne insists. "I'm using this monster to help people like my father did. I'm protecting her too."

How does one use a monster to help people? I can't help anyone with my anger issues. I doubt that your major flaws could be of any help to anyone.

"Thomas Wayne helping others wasn't about proving anything to anyone. Including himself."

Finally, my father sounds less preoccupied and more full of emotion as he replies to Alfred,

"It's Vieve, Alfred. She was dying. She's up in her room, probably getting dressed right about now. She doesn't know anything except for the fact that I brought her home."

It all clicks in my mind like a code being cracked, finally unlocking the safe.

The protective way Batman looked at me that night.

My name being shouted before I went under.

Him staying in my room until I awoke.

_My father is Batman._

Before I can hear any other words being exchanged, I rush out towards the ballroom, my legs feeling like Jell-O. My whole world feel like it's being changed, shifted, and crashing down upon me all at once.

My father, a man who I once thought cared for nobody but himself, is a masked crusader who goes around fighting crimes around Gotham and saving lives. He saved _my _life tonight. He found me when I was mugged and listened to me basically insult him as a father. I don't know who he is. Batman or Bruce Wayne; who is he really? Is either a real person?

I slide down a wall just short of the ballroom. How do I take this all in? If I thought I didn't know who he was before, then I really don't know who he is now. Is this why he's been ignoring me? Did he want me not to find out? Maybe he kept me at arm's length to protect me. That must mean that he cared all along, but just didn't show it…

Geeze, _now _I feel like crap for accusing him of not caring about Mom. I used every insult under the sun when in fact, he was a hero all along. Every day he wasn't at dinner with Alfred and me, he was patrolling the streets for crime to make this city a better place to live. Every morning he never wished me a good day, he was sleeping off the rough night of fighting crime. Every attempt to get to close to him that was shot down, he was trying to keep me further away from Batman.

It all makes sense now. Too much sense.

Standing up, I brush myself off, take a deep breath, and walk into the ballroom with a fake calm about me. The room is filled with the richest of the rich; the suck ups who hang on to my father for every penny he's worth. It's downright annoying the way they all look at me when I enter the room. It's like I'm an animal in a zoo. Everyone either smiles at me and my girly getup or gives me a look of badly concealed disdain. To most of them, I'm a stain upon the Wayne family name. I'm the illegitimate kid.

I smile politely when warranted, greet a few people who I vaguely know, accept the compliments on my dress and hair with a fake smile, and even glare back at a few of the people staring. I'm in no mood to put up with their shit. Not tonight.

A chorus of _Happy Birthday _starts to sound throughout the room. Sure enough, Mr. Wayne is entering, wearing a look of fake happiness and flattery on his face. He looks too preoccupied to enjoy any of this. Even if he wasn't, I can't imagine he would anyway. I'm not.

He finally breaks away from all the admirers and people kissing his ass to get in his good graces, and I ready myself. This is it. I'm gonna talk to him. I'll confront him over this, let him now that I know his secret, and then ask him a few burning questions of my own. Getting up the courage will be the hard part, though. Now that I know he's Batman, I don't know how to even view him. Is he the person he acts like when he's around me? Or is he just like the serious Batman? Or is he a mixture of both? I want to know who Bruce Wayne _really _is.

I walk forward to approach him, but I'm cut off by another wave of people moving through. I have to push my way through. When they finally clear, I see him talking to Fox, obviously deep in conversation. I curse silently. I'll just have to get him when he's done. And by god, I won't let anyone else come within 5 feet of him for the time being.

"… disappointment," I hear a whisper near me. When I twist my head around slightly, I see two heavily made-up ladies whispering discretely to each other. So much for discrete. I can hear them just fine.

"No one knows who her mother is," the other one whispers. Then it dawns on me. They're talking about _me_, as if I'm not even in the room and can hear everything they're saying. I inwardly scowl and listen closer. It won't hurt to see what it is everyone says about me behind my back. After all, it won't stop anytime soon.

"Apparently, she was in foster care, the poor dear." I want to gag at that term. 'Poor dear'? I'm not wounded or mentally unstable or something. At least, I'm not _too _mentally unstable. I certainly don't want their pity. And I don't want them to stick their noses in my business like they know me at all.

"Her mom was probably a drug addict or something or the sort," the other says dismissively.

That's it. I can tolerate people bad-mouthing me, but as soon as they dare to trash my mom, then they're in for it.

"Excuse me," I say as I turn around and approach the two women. They smile at me as if their conversation is forgotten. But to me, it's just getting started.

"Yes, dear?" the one with bleach-blonde hair asks kindly. I give a fake sweet smile and look at her innocently.

"I can hear your conversations from where I was a few minutes ago," I inform her. "And for your information, my mother was not a drug user or a slut _or_ a deadbeat mother or any other thing you might accuse her of. She was a wonderful mother and you know nothing about her. I would appreciate it if you not assume things about my private life just like I won't assume that since you've over bleached your hair so much you've also had extensive work done to your face that only makes you look like a reject, elderly Barbie doll. Good night, ma'am."

I spin around on my heels with a smirk on my face, pretending not to hear their gasps of shock behind me. That was even more fun than I thought it'd be.

Finally, my father stands alone, looking lost at the food table. Before anything else can distract me or him, I rush over to his side. He looks down at me in shock before plastering back on his fake smile. I can see right through it. I'm surprised no one else can.

"Well, Genevieve, it's nice to –,"

"I know your secret," I blurt out. His face pales, his eyes widening. There's no talking his way out of this or claiming his secret to be something else. He knows exactly what I'm talking about. I'm talking about his other identity. I'm talking about this 'Batman', and he knows it.

"How did you…" he begins, unable to find words.

"I overheard you and Alfred talking," I admit guiltily. He gives me a glare, but I can see a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You little rat," he says, more affectionately than anything. Strangely enough, that makes me smile. It's the first time he's talked to me, and I mean _really _talked to me. He's not asking about my day casually, or saying something unimportant in passing. He's actually talking to me, joking with me.

"Needless to say, I'm not telling anyone. I just have one thing to ask in return for keeping your secret hidden."

He raises his eyebrows at me, obviously thinking I want a favor or something. No, I only want a question. I wouldn't make him actually _do _anything in exchange for me not ratting on him to the cops. I'm not that much of a bitch.

"Sure," he agrees. I swallow hard and find words hard to form right now. I've been waiting for this moment, yet now I can't say anything? _Be brave_, I tell myself. Remember what Mom said. She raised me that way.

"Did you mean what you said?" I ask him quietly. The noise of the people around us fades away as I focus on him and him only, standing here in front of me. I'm positive this question will end in nothing but my sheer embarrassment. I almost wish I hadn't asked. But I know I needed to.

"What did I say?" he asks. Something about the way he looks at me seems almost… fatherly. Like he's concerned with how upset I look. I know I should forgive him for the almost two weeks of little to no contact. He's Batman! He even saved my life and told Alfred that he wasn't placing Batman above me. Maybe this was his reason for keeping his distance. He saved my life; I should be grateful.

But I can't let anything go until he answers my question.

"Did you actually love my mom?" I ask, my voice not raising above a whisper. His face falls and I prepare myself for the worst. How could he love her? He left! He never even attempted to contact her again. She was a college girlfriend. Most people forget about those. Of course he never loved her.

"I did," he admits suddenly. I remain skeptical of this. I don't see how any of the things he did would be what you do to someone you love. After all, don't people fight for love?

"You sure have a funny way of showing it," I shoot back harshly. He flinches. I've hit a sore spot. I didn't mean to be harsh, but it just… came out that way.

"I guess I did," he replies shakily. "I still do, don't I?"

I look down at the ground. Is this the confession of love I was looking for since I've met him? I always wanted him to admit caring about me, even if it was just a tiny bit. But this… I don't know what to make of this. He's implying that he sucks at showing that he cares for me, but I'm still skeptical that he does at all.

But if he didn't… why would I be here? He wouldn't have taken me in otherwise, right?

"What did you love the most about her?" I ask. I don't even know why I asked. I just want to keep talking about Mom. She's our only common bond. We both knew, and apparently _both _loved her. He smiles, looking down slightly like he reminiscing privately.

"I loved how she could be so soft-spoken, but so feisty at the same time. I love how she was a natural care-giver. No wonder she made a wonderful mom."

I smile, agreeing with everything he says. He laughs a little as he thinks of more things about my quirky mom.

"I love how she would start yelling at me in Irish when we got into a fight, and how her accent came out when she was starting to get angry."  
I giggle a little. Irish was Mom's first language, and the one she taught me. I still remember it, but almost never use it. I remember that when I made her really, really, _really _angry, she would yell at me _"Thug mé tú isteach sa saol seo, is féidir liom a ghlacadh tú amach é!" _Then I knew I was in for it.

"I loved every single thing about her. And she passed all those things down to you."

I stare up at him, trying to figure out if that was his own way of saying he loves me. It sounded close enough. I've never heard the actual words from him. I never expected to, either. I would take any form of it I could get. A smile slowly finds its way to my face.

I think that was close enough.

A lady comes out of nowhere and babbles to my father, saying she has someone she needs to introduce him to. I inwardly groan and debate telling this one off too. But Mr. Wayne tells me he'll be right back and goes with her to wherever she's dragging him. I grab some cheese and crackers and shove them in my mouth, devouring them gratefully. Man, who would have known that getting gassed gives you such an appetite?

Before I can sample more of this expensive array of food, Mr. Wayne comes back up to me. His face is panicked, and he suddenly grabs me by my shoulders and leans down closer to me so no one else can hear. I can sense the fear, the panic, and the alarm on him, radiating towards me. For once, I don't try to break out of the grip he has on me.

"I'm going to make a speech. After that speech is over, I want you to leave. Go somewhere safe. Hide. I'll find you when this is all over, okay? I promise."

Before I can say anything in response, he squeezes my shoulder and stands back up to full height. What the hell just happened?

"But… wha-what…?"

"I love you, Vieve."

With that sudden confession, he walks away.

Those words only cement it for me. Whatever it is that's happening, I won't let him face it alone, no matter what he tells me or how angry he'll be.

I don't bail on family.

* * *

**A/N: Awwww, so Bruce is family now! I'm sad this story is near wrapping up. I'm gonna miss it! Of course, there's always The Dark Knight... And kudos to whoever looked up the translation of that sentence. I was going to be mean and not tell you, but I will. It means, 'I brought you into this world, I can take you out,' AKA my mom's favorite threat. :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Another quick update. I'm just on a roll! I'm writing this while watching the mid-season premier of The Walking Dead, so I'm a teeny bit distracted at the moment. And super duper excited. INSTENSE CHAPTER AHEAD! Just a warning. Prepare for feels.**

* * *

My father clinks his glass from the center of the room, acting a little rattled when he hears the sound of his fingers on the glass. He's suddenly groggy, like he wasn't totally clear headed when we talked. Then I grin as I realize what he's doing. He's pretending to be out-of-his-mind drunk.

"Everyone, everybody," he calls as people start to quiet down. I'm practically cringing in anticipation. He's going to make a fool of himself. I just know it. I only wish I knew _why_.

"I, uh… I wanna thank you all for coming here tonight and drinking all of my booze."

Polite laughter spreads across the room, and even Mr. Wayne and I laugh a little at his joke. For a 'drunk', he's witty.

"Really. There's a thing about being a Wayne that… you're never short of a few freeloaders, like yourselves, to fill up your mansion with, so, here's to _you_ _people_. Thank you."

Someone tries to talk to him, obviously trying to get him to shut up, but he waves him off rudely. Some people turn to stare at me, like I should be blamed for this tirade. I'm torn between wanting to hide my face in embarrassment and wanting to give a death glare to everyone in this room.

"To all of you. All you _phonies_, all you two-faced friends, you sycophantic suck-ups who smile through your teeth at me and stare at my daughter like she's a monkey in a zoo, please leave us in peace. Please _go_. Stop smiling. It's not a joke. Please leave. The party's over. _Get out_."

People grumble in shock and anger as they leave the premises. I see a man lean forward and say something to my father. Whatever it is, it makes his face fall. I wish I could rush over to him and stand by his side for whatever it is he was panicked about earlier, but I can't. This crowd of people makes it nearly impossible to go anywhere or even stand in my current spot without being moved. I'm being pushed back in the crowd, but I try my best to fight to come closer to Mr. Wayne. Ugh, this is why being short sucks! You get pushed back as soon as a crowd forms.

Finally, I come closer to my father. As soon as he spots me, his jaw tightens and his eyes narrow in anger. He's not happy; he's not happy at all.

"I told you to leave," he growls lowly. "That is an _order_."

I'm about to respond when he grabs me by the shoulder tightly and pushes me forward, making me hit bodies with a man much, much taller than me. I try turning around to go to him again, but the man I bumped into obviously isn't very courteous. He keeps on walking, grumbling at me to get out of the way. That and the combination of other people in the crowd continues to push me forward, forward, forward, until I'm at the front of the mansion with everyone else. I stumble outside while everyone gossips among themselves, no doubt talking about how Mr. Wayne must be an alcoholic and a secretly giant asshole.

I'm tempted to rush back in, but I know that it will do no good. He will make sure that I somehow get out of the house before whatever it is that's going to happen. I wrack my brain for a solution to this problem. I need to help him with whatever it is that has him so frantic. He's the goddamn Batman. This _must _be serious if it's got him this worked up. There has to be some other way to meet him besides going back inside the manor only to be turned away by him again.

It comes to me quickly, and a grin spreads across my face. Yes, that's a perfect idea. It's the one place where I'm sure I'll meet him as Batman. I'll find him there and follow him to wherever it is that he's going. Even in this dress and these horrendous flats, I'm planning on walking all the way there. I'll run there if I have to. I know my destination perfectly.

The Narrows.

Grabbing my hairband, I rip the bun out of my hair and let my long hair billow out before taking off running through some of the trees on the property. I know a shortcut to the main road from here. I'll be in the Narrows soon enough.

* * *

When I walk down the main street to the bridge, I have to ignore all the weird looks I get for my get-up. There's a big barricade in front of the bridge. Only a select group of people are getting in. Great! That's just great. I really don't expect them to let me with my fancy dress through the wall of people and into the Narrows, especially when all the power I have is being Bruce Wayne's kid. Why are they closing the bridge down, anyway?

An officer near the front of the sea of people becomes distracted when he is approached by a woman. His full attention is on her, meaning there's a good section of the bridge he isn't paying attention to. Now I see my chance. I'm quick and pretty agile. Slipping forward, I swiftly sneak over to his left side, seeing he's still answering her question. I walk backwards slowly so he won't notice the movement beside him. When my feet finally touch the bridge, I smirk in pride. My sneaking skills have only developed further since being here in Gotham. Like father like daughter, right?

People are either running down the bridge to Gotham's main road or up it to the Narrows. I join the crowd going into the Narrows, running in these uncomfortable shoes up to the bad part of town. Man, I never thought that in an emergency, this would be the first place I go to. It's like running towards an erupting volcano. It's something only idiots do. Well, I guess I'm officially an idiot.

The Narrows is in total chaos when I get to it. People are running around like maniacs. Some people look to be wandering aimlessly, wondering what the heck to do or what's going on. Everyone seems to be losing their head in panic. It would be easy to be lost in the crowd and the complete and utter chaos going on around me. But Arkham is a short walk from here. He showed up at Arkham last night to save me. He'll do it again. It's the only logical place he could go at a time like this. I'll bet anything that it's the source of some of this trouble.

"Can you help me find my mom?" a voice squeaks out from somewhere. I look around to see a little kid putting his hand on a man's arm, begging for some help. The man wrenches his arm out of the boy's grip and glares at him like he's a piece of trash. Anger rises in me. He's a helpless child who's just lost and scared. How could someone be such a douchebag?

"Hey!" I yell at the man. "Back off!" I grab the kid's hand and lead him away from the asshole. I kneel down the best I possibly can in this dress and smooth out his hair a little, trying to calm him down and reassure him he's alright.

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'll help you find your mom. Okay?" He nods and stands closer to me. I feel sorry that I have to take this poor boy into Arkham with me, but we'll never find his mother in the street. It's too crazy to find anyone. He'll just have to stick with me while I try to meet up with my father.

I take the back entrance into Arkham that few know about. Luckily, Crane told me about it. I bet Crane regrets that now. It's easy to get inside. But, how easy will it be to find my way around? After all, Crane showed me last night that he knows more parts of Arkham than I do. The last thing that I want to do is run into him while going through the hallways here. Especially with the boy slowing me down. I won't let Crane harm him too.

I clutch the boy's hand tightly as we walk down the halls of Arkham. I can feel him trembling in fear, so I hold him a little closer to my side. I guess I did inherit my mom's natural instinct to protect and nurture.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "We'll find your mom. I promise. Just stick close to me and you'll be fine, okay?" He nods into my side, ruffling the fabric a bit. I use my free hand to smooth down his hair again. The poor kid. He must be terrified.

My foot hits something hard as we're walking, and I nearly curse out loud. I stop short when I remember the impressionable young kid next to me. That'd be a disaster. So, I bend down and pick it up instead. A medium sized rock rests in my palm. I have no idea how a rock got into Arkham's basement, I have no idea. But it might be useful in case I run into Crane, so I'll keep it.

We finally come near the staircase for the next floor, the main area of Arkham, when suddenly, something happens. It's like a bomb goes off. I hear a *pop* and that's it. Gas is released throughout the building, filling the area and making it nearly impossible to see. It stings my eyes and hurts to inhale. Automatically, I press the boy's head to my side to shield him from it.

"Don't breathe it in," I order him. "Only breathe in when your mouth and nose are covered."

I know it must be the fear gas. It has spread throughout the entire building. How? Crane is too smart for this. He has no reason to spread it throughout the whole building when he's here. It would cause him to go insane too. Besides, that's be no fun for him. He can't go around and scare the shit out of everyone with his mask when it's throughout the whole building. No, this had to have been an accident or done by someone else. Maybe it was whoever he had another deal with besides the mob.

But more importantly… why isn't it affecting me again? I'm perfectly fine other than not being able to see that far ahead of me and coughing whenever I inhale too heavily. I'm not losing my mind again. This gas can't touch me. Did Mr. Wayne somehow inoculate me for the effects of this gas? Or did I gain an immunity to it or something? I have no idea. All I know is that I need to get this kid somewhere safe. Now.

I push through the gas and force myself to squint so I can see the objects in my way. It's all nearly impossible to manage, but I need to get through. I do this all while making sure the boy's face stays pressed to my side tightly. There's no way this won't affect him. I'll keep him safe by any means. He's only an innocent kid. He doesn't deserve this. I feel terrible for bringing him here. Then again, his odds wouldn't have been much better out of the streets the way they are. It's up to me to protect him.

I grope blindly for the staircase that I'm sure is in front of me. Sure enough, I find the railing with my fingertips. Using all the strength in my little body, I place my arm underneath the boy and lift him up so I can carry him while his face is still buried, but this time in my neck.

"Don't breathe it in," I warn him while climbing the stairs. It's hard to carry the weight of a kid who must be at least six years old, but I power through it, telling myself that it won't be much longer before we're up the stairs. Crap, he's heavy! Why couldn't he have been two or three? That would have saved me a lot of trouble.

We reach the last step, and I carefully readjust him so he's back on the floor, but his face is pressed against my dress. I put my hand on his hair soothingly. The last thing I want is for the kid to panic. He needs to remain calm so he doesn't start hyperventilating and lose what little air he has while against my dress.

The sound of screams sound throughout the building, and I hear the boy gasp in fright.

"It's okay, it's okay," I repeat over and over. Truthfully, I'm as terrified as he is. The noise is terrible. It sounds like someone being slowly tortured to death in the next room. But I know that it must be someone who inhaled the gas. I wonder if that's what I sounded like when I saw bugs flying at me from Crane's mask and the world distorting around me. I shiver just remembering it. I had hoped that I could have prevented anyone else from feeling that, but I know that it has already occurred.

The faint sounds of something else sound throughout the building. It clanks down on the floor over and over again. Is that… a horse? No, it can't be. Where would someone find a freaking _horse _in Gotham City? I don't know of any farms around here. No. There's no way. But then why do I keep hearing the neighing and the hoof clatter echoing throughout the building? It won't stop. Soon it comes closer and closer as I try to get farther away with the boy pressed even closer against my side. Whatever it is, I won't let it touch us.

"No one is going to hurt you," I tell the boy soothingly.

"Of _course _they are!" a voice shouts through the void. I look up in terror to find none other than Crane in his scarecrow mask, riding on horseback through the gas filled building. And he's coming right towards me. I shield the boy as best as I can and look up at this man who used to be my mentor. Oh, how far he's fallen. Even his horse has a mask over his head. He's turned from a half-crazed genius to just crazed.

"Crane?" I ask cautiously. I don't know why I'm bothering. Do I really think I can get through to him?

"No," he corrects. "Scarecrow!"

He's just as crazy as the people he gasses. He's too far gone for reason. At this point, I don't think there's any getting through to him. But there never really was, even when he was sane.

He reaches into his pocket, and suddenly, he's brandishing a gun. I freeze and gather the boy even closer to my side in an effort to protect him from this madman. I'm trapped here.

"I'll do what I should have done the minute you walked into my office!" he declares, seeming to take a deranged delight in my impending doom. Except, he's not pointing the gun at me. In the confusion between the thick air, the mask on his head, and his messed up mind, he's aiming wrong, keeping the gun pointed straight at the boy.

I quickly switch my body around so the boy is behind me and out of range, exposing my back to Crane. Everything's happening so fast. I have no time to do anything except prepare for the shot to knock me down. I hear the gunshot being fired, and I nearly fall just from the sound. I wait for some sort of pain to rip through my body. Isn't that what's supposed to happen? Does it take a few minutes for you to feel it? I feel nothing. Nothing hit me.

A groan emanates from the front of me. My heart leaps into my throat as I turn around. One look at the body on the ground near my feet sends a high pitched scream ripping through my throat. I fall down onto my knees and place my hands near the wound, wishing anything for this to not be true. Please, let this all be one twisted nightmare. I deserved that bullet more. It was meant for me. This is all my fault. I would prefer death over this scene playing out right in front of my eyes.

"Don't die on me, Blake!"

* * *

**A/N: Shocked? Maybe I should just not say anything in case you decide you want to maim me for doing this... *hides in corner* Yeah, if you could just tell me what you liked about this chapter before you kill me, that'd be great...**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: So, my lovely readers, I have a treat for you. I cannot take credit for the last section of this chapter. Wanna know why?  
**

**BECAUSE IT WAS WRITTEN BY BLAKE HERSELF.  
**

**Now, I know you are confused, my readers. I can imagine your cries right now. 'But BBB, Blake doesn't exist! How can she write?!'  
**

**Well, my dearest readers, you are only HALF correct. Yes, Blake Demonte does not exist. Neither does Vieve Bancroft. BUT, the inspiration for Blake was my best friend, who insists that I call her Kate for this purpose. She is not just the basis for Blake - she IS Blake, plain and simple. And she is the author of the last half of this chapter.**

**Also, I know Vieve did a totally un-Vieve thing last chapter, but that is all explained in this one. ENJOY!**

* * *

_"Don't die on me, Blake!"_

My best friend groans a little in response just to show me she can hear me, but other than that, she seems totally out of it. She's losing blood fast. I press my hand hard against the wound on her abdomen to stop it or at least slow it down a bit. My hands become soaked in her dark, sticky blood. It won't stop coming. She's in some sort of corset and skirt combo, but her old combat boots show that it's the same old Blake I know and love. She's still my best friend.

And she's still dying.

In sheer and absolute anger that consumes my body, I take the rock in my hand and chuck it straight at Crane's head as hard as humanly possible. It hits its target and sends him flying backward, startling his horse. It gallops away blindly while Crane moans in pain. The sound echoes throughout the building long after he's left the area. I wish I had broken his skull open and killed him right here, right now.

I only barely feel the boy pressing his face against my side. Right now, all my focus is on Blake. I put my other hand – the one not desperately pressing down on her gaping wound – on her face, trying to get her to look at me.

"B-Blake," I say in a shaky voice. _Don't cry,_ I tell myself. _Don't you dare fucking cry. Blake needs you. You need to be strong for her._ I keep telling myself this, but I'm still on the verge of constant tears threatening to spill over. This is just one sick mistake. It was _me _who was supposed to die. It should have been me!

But Blake, she doesn't cry. She doesn't even seem upset. She's the strong one of us two. She just smiles at me sadly and giggles a bit through the pain. She once said that she deals with all her extreme emotions by choosing to either laugh or cry. She prefers laughing more often than not.

"Vieve," she responds. "I-I'm so s-sor-ry," she stutters out. The tears that I told myself would not fall are now running down my face. She's apologizing as she lays dying from a bullet intended for _me_. How messed up is that? I should be in her place! _I _should be dying right now! Why did she take a bullet for me? I'll never be able to live with myself if I don't somehow get her out of here. I need to get her out of here. She won't pay for Crane's hatred of me.

"Don't be sorry," I insist. "I forgave you a long time ago." She smiles again. But it's weak. I can sense she's fading fast. If something doesn't happen soon, she'll fade away completely. Dammit, where is my father?! He should be here. He could save her. I can't. I wouldn't be able to get her out of here without killing her!

"Y-You were always l-like a s-sister to me," she says in a hoarse voice. "An a-annoying l-little s-sister." I give a weak laugh and wipe the tears from my leaking eyes. Even on her deathbed, Blake is cracking jokes. My heart cracks a little bit more when I realize something.

I did this.

My decision to come to the Narrows suddenly seems so completely _stupid _and idiotic. I really thought that I could come out unscathed and meet my father here? Ha! I've never had a worse idea in my life. Usually, I have time to come to a decision, so I'm used to success. I think everything out carefully down to the last detail, like I did with my plan to bust Crane. But this time, I didn't think anything out. I just went through with an idiotic plan for the slim chance that it might turn out well. I was confused, stressed, overwhelmed, and I made a decision under pressure like I did when I was emotional and wanted to see Blake so bad that I got on an elevator with Crane. Just like then, I've failed. I made the _wrong _decision in every way possible. Not only did I put myself in danger and put this kid next to me in danger, but I caused my best friend to get shot taking a bullet meant for me. I lower my head in shame.

I deserved that bullet. It was supposed to be _me _who paid for my stupidity, not Blake. She had no part in this. Maybe the reason everyone I love dies or leaves me is because of _me_. I know I at least caused this. I killed my own best friend because I suck at thinking on my feet.

"You just need to hold on a little bit longer," I tell her with conviction. I won't let my best friend die. Not today. "I'll get you out of here, okay?" She laughs at me, shaking her head weakly.

"A-Are you fu-fucking kid-ding me Vieve?" she asks. I can tell that she's trying desperately to regain clear speech, but as she fades faster and faster, it becomes that much harder for her to form words.

"I'm n-not gonna m-make it," she declares. I shake my head, tears splattering on her as I do.

"No," I growl. "Don't talk like that! You'll make it! I just need to get you out of here –,"

"_Vieve_," she interrupts firmly. I'm shocked by how 'present' she sounds. She's not as weak and distracted as her tone was before. Now it sounds like she's regaining some sense of where she is and what she's saying and becoming more lucid, but I can tell from her expression that it's painful for her to gather up her energy like this.

"I'm done for," she struggles to say. Her tone is clear, but her face is draining itself of even more color. She's paler than anyone I've ever seen before. An albino looks healthier than her.

"I love ya, bitch," she says jokingly. I laugh through the tears running down my face and clogging my throat. This was always what we said to each other after I left her house or after phone calls ended. It was our weird way of saying goodbye to each other. I hate goodbyes.

"Back at 'cha, bitch," I respond shakily. I grab her hand with my non-blood stained hand and squeeze it, just to reassure myself that she's still present. I haven't lost her yet. She's still alive and breathing.

But she just told me goodbye.

And heavy, large hand presses down on my shoulder. I glance down at Blake, but it's not her who is touching me. It's much too big to belong to the little boy. That must mean…

I glance up to find 'Batman' looking down at Blake and me with sad, but serious eyes. He sure picked a fine time to show up. If he had just been a little bit earlier…

"You have to help me get her out of here," I croak out, feeling my chest constrict painfully. Batman looks down at Blake, but he specifically stares at her wound that still oozes blood. I can practically see the gears turning in his brain, telling him that she's not worth it, that she won't make the trip out of the building. But I can't accept that. I won't. Blake risked her life for me, and now it's my turn to return the favor.

"She's my best friend!" I shout. "She took a bullet for me! You can't just leave her here to die. Not like this."

"Yes you c-can," Blake insists. I look down at her in shock. She's bargaining for her own death here on this cold, factory floor. How many people in the world would do that? And it's all because she's so loyal to me. She's willing to die for me. It's like a sucker punch right in the gut.

"She's right," Batman agrees in his gravely, disguised voice. Right now, I despise it. It reminds me of my failure. "She'll never make it in this condition. We're running out of time."

Blake gives me her 'I told you so' look. I'm torn between laughing hysterically and crying violently. The fact that she still gives me that prescient look, even now, isn't at all surprising to me. It's Blake, after all. She always has that air of correctness about her, mainly because she always is correct.

Batman grabs my arm, trying to pull me away from her. I remain glued to my spot, staring at Blake. It all becomes too much, and I feel like I'm out of my body. I'm me, but I'm not _me_… Does that make any sense? Ah, screw it; I don't have to make sense right now.

"No!" I shout out at him. Blake frowns deeply. She wants me to go. She wants me to move on and let her die on her own terms. I should respect her wishes. After all, she's the one who was shot protecting me.

But I can't.

"_Go_," Blake demands in a pained whisper. Batman pulls at me again, trying to get me away from Blake's quivering form. I thrash in his grip, crying even harder than I ever thought possible. This can't be it. This can't be the last time I'll see Blake's face. This can't be the very last laugh we'll share. This can't be the last time I'll get a glimpse of her impossibly frizzy, untamable hair. This can't be the last sarcastic comment she flings at me. This can't be the last conversation we have. 'Go' cannot be her last words. This. Cannot. Be. Real.

"Let go of me!" I demand of him. He uses his other arm to bring the boy next to his cape before lifting him up swiftly and easily. Then he pulls me by the arm harder, ripping my hand away from Blake's wound in the process. NO! She'll bleed out if I don't apply pressure!

"No, please, you don't understand!" I scream in a panic. The tears have stopped. I'm too far into shock to cry anymore. Now, all I want to do is stay right in this spot and never leave. I'll never leave my best friend's side if I have any say in the matter. She needs me.

I need her.

"Come on!" he commands. I can sense a degree of gentleness in his voice, though. "We need to leave _now_." He manages to drag me to my feet, and he pulls me away even quicker than before. I dig my heels into the ground desperately, but it's no use. He's too strong to fight. Blake's nearly limp body is fading away from my sight in the gas filled building. This is our very last goodbye. And I don't know how to accept it.

_"T-Tell me w-why, why d-does follo-wing your d-dreams t-take you f-far away f-from me, and I k-knew it w-would," _I hear behind me. My eyes tear up one last time when I realize that Blake is singing one of our songs. It was a song we found together called _How To Say Goodbye_, and we both agreed that it was depressing as all hell, completely unlike our usual up-beat rock songs. However, we both secretly loved it and swore each other to secrecy about it.

A grim smile spreads across my face as I sing back to her,

_"Tell me how to fill the space you left behind, how to laugh instead of cry, and how to say goodbye."_

_"Here I s-stand, arms o-open wide. I-I've held y-you close, k-kept you s-safe, 'till you c-could fly."_

Her voice is fading off more and more the further Batman drags me from her. His grip has loosened up, but I don't try to break away from it anymore. I can recognize that nothing I can do will bring her back from this. I take a deep breath as I sing the very last lyrics. The lyrics that symbolize our final goodbye.

_"Tell me where the road ahead is gonna bend, and how to harness up the wind, and how to say goodbye."_

* * *

_Blake's POV (**where my authorship ends...**)_

Laying on the cold pavement that the winter had so gracefully provided as my deathbed and singing the sad ballad to signify my death, I began contemplating the whole of my life.

To make a long story short: It sucked.

I had what- several friends?

And at the top of that list was Vieve.

Ever since that first day when she'd tried to stand up for herself instead of asking for help, she'd grown to be the closest friend I'd ever had. And she had broken every kind of personal record I knew of for the fastest friendship ever formed. We were like two badass peas in a pod.

That is- before she went bat-shit crazy and stole my uncle from me, but I should have known he was using her. Like he'd been using me.

Damn!

I'd been such an idiot!

Of course he didn't actually like me! I was just the niece who clung to him for dear life- and when I became nothing more than a bur, he decided to flick me in somebody else's face.

Fucking love you too.

I was unloved and a piece of garbage floating in my own river of unshed tears. None of my 'friends' knew the shit I went through, they had no clue that sometimes my mere survival was only the result of a strong will and the optimism I lacked when trying to explain my point of view on the world. They knew nothing. I loved them to bits, but they still had no clue the crap I had to deal with every day when I would arrive to a home to a house void of loving or caring parents.

But Vieve did.

She understood what it was like to be rejected and loved about as much as a festering wound.

Thinking of wounds was a shitty idea as I shuttered with another douse of pain the hole in my body produced, my voice breaking in the process and my song finishing on a sloppy note.

I focused on my feet as I felt them tingle with the sense of numbness, or more likely lack of blood. The familiar feeling of my combat boots faded. I'd miss those combat boots.

The awareness of my feet was instead replaced with a pulsing white pain.

With a grim smile, I realized that it was my heart pumping even more blood into the wound on my chest. My fingers twitched and in a brief moment of sense, I felt a thick substance coating the gravely surface I lay on. I began trying to grope around, gaining some blood circulating through my fingers again. With a shiver I realized what I lay in a pool of.

Eyup.

My blood.

Most people would be terrified, but me?

I wasn't most people.

I was- unique.

I couldn't think a more honorable way to die; I had saved the life of the closest person to a real family I had. Even if it meant forfeiting my life in the process, I hope Vieve understood how truthfully sorry I was.  
_'  
Don't be sorry, I forgave you a long time ago.'_

I guess that would be the best I'd get.

I mean, sure she said it; but did she mean it?

My mind had been about to dip into unconsciousness, so she could have been lying for all I knew.

But she had started to cry.

Why the hell was she crying?

My death was nothing to shed tears over- Vieve was safe.

I choose to be the one to die.

She wouldn't leave until her daddy came to drag her home like some kid after a playdate. **(A/N: Blake knows a secret... ;) )**

Damn idiot would probably blame herself for this.

Dumbass.

If she did, I would have no scruples in haunting her until I forced her to move on.

Ha.

The thought of me being dead.

Hahaha.

It was hilarious- I was going to die.

Hahahaha!

My inward chuckles escaped me and I was soon laughing dryly to myself, coughing up blood but unable to stop.

My chuckles soon became a public affair as the volume increased to a louder level, causing my deadly cackle to bounce off the walls surrounding me. My demonic laugh echoed through the streets and I was soon having a full-blown laugh attack.

I was going to die!

Hahahahahaha!

My senses began to blur and I could have sworn a second voice joined me and turned my satanic laughter into a psychotic and disturbing duet that floated through the air like an ominous cloud.

God- I loved the chaos our voices made as they rebounded through the empty hollows of Arkham. They intertwined and wove a ribbon of sound through the air around my dying body.

What better way to die than listening to the personification of my chaotic life?

It was better than the song than I sang with Vieve, more beautiful and descriptive of my life than any piece Mozart could write.

It was sheer gorgeousness listening to pearls of laughter turn into a melody of the dying.

A masterpiece.

The second voice seemed to louden and I heard the faint sound of shoes clacking on the ground mingling with our song, and I knew my melodious friend was looking for me.

They would most likely be disturbed to find a dying girl laughing at the world as she faded out of it.

But only somebody as corrupt as myself would have joined in my laughter and chaotic tune it created.

Curiosity caused me to crack open an eye.

I had been unaware that they closed in the first place.

As my fellow artist approached, my laughter turned into a moist coughing that produced thick globs of blood from my throat and lungs.

I saw a pair of purple pants walking towards me with an equally bizarrely colored coat hanging down till their legs. The tips of a green vest dipped in and out of my vision and I was unable to see any more of them.

Their laughter was scratchier than mine, but equally as nerve wracking.

They abruptly cut off their laughter once they stood a few steps away.

"And who- exactly- are you?" They said, exploring their option of words as if looking for the best phrasing.

"Doesn't matter," I coughed out. "M-my past is over so I have been and am nobody."

More blood spurted from my mouth and I began to cough again, drops of the red surfaced landing on dots on my face.

"Interesting," He pondered. "If you am and are nobody, then who am I looking at?"

I finished coughing before slurring a response.

"A nobody. And thank you for laugh-hing at the world with me. I-I'm sure nobody loved the chaos."

I stuttered, my eyes slowly closing again as I felt a black cloud drift in my head.

"Would nobody like to work with me? I happen to think that she might like the chaos involved."

My lips barely moved as I felt my mind grasp for a response.

"Shhuuure. Chaaooss iss funnn."

He responded, but his voice seemed miles away.

"Then it's a pleasure to meet me I'm sure. My name is the Joker, and welcome to my circus."

* * *

**A/N: Ladies and gentlemen; the writing of my best friend. She was obsessed with Batman before me, even though I discovered him as a child. My real obsession didn't start until we watched Batman Begins together.**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: So, a little announcement that I will ALSO put at the bottom:  
**

**This story will have a epilogue next chapter to wrap it up.  
**

**But it will ALSO have a sequel.  
**

**VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION. IT WILL HAVE A SEQUEL.  
**

**That is all. :)**

* * *

Batman explained the entire situation to me about Ra's al Ghul and the League of Shadows while I just listened numbly, nodding every so often to show him I was still mentally here. My entire mind feels numb, like I just can't feel. I'm not consumed with any emotion like I feel I should be. No sadness, no anger, no disbelief, nothing. I just… am. That's all I can use to describe my current state. I'm walking, breathing, and talking, but I feel hollow. I'm not Vieve Bancroft. I'm some sort of ghost who's just going through the motions and trying not to get killed. Even then, I'm not trying all that hard at that part. I feel like some part of me, the part that made me who I am, was ripped away and laid to rest next to Blake's body in that gas filled building.

I make a mental note to make sure she gets a proper burial later. She deserves better than the cold Arkham floor. And I know damn well that her parents won't do much for her when they find out. It's all up to me.

"You stay here," he commands, placing me on a rooftop of a building not far from Arkham. "I'll come get you later, okay?" I just look at him, not answering. I don't know how to talk to him at all. I don't even know how to look at him. In the small space of time that I've known about his secret identity, I've somehow separated Bruce Wayne from Batman and come up with two different people who should be thought of as totally different. This person I see right now is Batman. He's all business. He won't tolerate me saying I refuse to stay here and out of danger, so I keep my mouth shut. Now, if it had been Bruce Wayne, then maybe I would protest. Just maybe.

He leaves me here, standing on this building, waiting for his return, whenever that will be. I look out into the night and listen to the chaos going on below me. People scream and yell and run around like chickens with their heads cut off. To them, it's like Armageddon. None of it can phase me. Not anymore. Not after what just happened. Everything falls short of reaching me. It all seems to trivial now. Everything does. And plus, these people live in Gotham City. Shouldn't they be used to this stuff by now? God, how did these people function as human beings before Batman came about?!

I nearly laugh at this entire thing. The League of Shadows? Ha! Who cares about them? They're just another road block that seems so insignificant now. My lack of caring gives me a strange sense of invincibility. I'm not so scared that something can hurt me. My inhibitions have seemed to lessen. I look down at the ground once more, wondering how far down it is…

No, I'm not thinking of jumping. Seriously, does that sound like something _I_ would do?

But I _am_ thinking of something else. I'm thinking of disobeying Batman's orders and leaving this roof. I'm thinking of confronting some of Ra's al Ghul's henchmen who are no doubt lurking around the Narrows, making sure all goes according to their plan. It would be so easy to sneak down that ladder over on the edge of the building and hide in the dark alley way, holding the heaviest object I can find and whacking them in the back of the head as they pass. That is, if I can guess who they are.

I shake the idea out of my head. It's just plain suicidal. The fact that I could even entertain that thought for more than a millisecond scares the crap out of me. I know that if Blake had not…

I swallow hard.

I know that if Blake had not _died_, then I would not even be thinking of doing something so stupid. I would be clear headed and thinking properly. But right now, I don't know what to think. I'd prefer not to, in fact. It makes things a lot easier. Then I won't have to _feel _things.

Pesky emotions.

A noise on the roof startles me out of my deep thoughts. I let go of my grip on the edge of the building and spin around, preparing for the worst. On the other end of the roof, climbing up the ladder, is a man in a suit. A man in a _suit_, an expensive looking one at that, is climbing up a roof in the Narrows. Okay, this looks suspicious. Not only is a nicely dressed man in the Narrows at a time like this, but he's climbing up to a secluded roof near Arkham. I wondered before how I would spot Ra's al Ghul's men, but now I think I have my answer. I've found myself a real live henchman. I feel like I should get some sort of reward for that. _They don't just exist in movies!_

I rush over to a large vent and crouch down behind it to hide myself from the mysterious man. Before, I almost went blindly charging out to a darkened alley in pursuit of these men, but now that one is in the same area as me, I have no idea what to do. I'm just here, hiding like a wimp with my body curled awkwardly in this dress. My instincts scream to come out of my hiding place and fight him with all the strength I have in my small body. But, what strength would that be?

The sound of footsteps come closer, closer, closer, until they're to my back right. I forget how to breathe for a moment. In, out, in out. C'mon Vieve, you can do it! Don't suffocate before Batman comes back!

I look to my left, desperately hoping for him not to come any closer to me. If he moves backward a little bit, his feet will be right next to my body.

My eyes pick up on something in the distance. It's faint, but I think I can just barely recognize what it is in the dark. It's… a stick? Yep, it looks to be a stick. No one would clean the roof, especially not in the Narrows. I shouldn't be surprised that a very conveniently placed stick is here like it was placed here specifically for me.

But it's out of my reach.

He could walk right next to me at any moment and I would be discovered. One more step and I'm doomed. I need that stick to at least have a shot at defending myself if he finds me. Maybe I can catch him off guard and get him with it while he stands there. But first, there's the matter of getting it in the first place. And getting it without being noticed.

Carefully getting down to my hands and knees, I crawl as silently as possible. The hard surface of the roof burns as it scratches against my flesh, tearing into it and opening up a few wounds already. Why did I not want to wear stockings again? Now I'm starting to regret that decision. It would have saved me a lot of scabs that are sure to form after this. Not once while I'm crawling do I look back at the man behind me. If he does see me, I don't want to know. It will only cause me to freeze up. It's better that I at least have the stick in my hands first.

When I pick it up, I'm delighted to find that it's heavier than I originally thought. It will do more damage than I originally planned. I stand up fully, gripping the stick in both hands. When I turn around, I see the man pressing his hand to his ear. He must be talking on some comm link. He's distracted. I smirk. This is the perfect opportunity if I've ever seen one.

I walk towards him slowly. The stick is raised above my head like a baton ready to strike. My shoes that I hate with the passion of a thousand burning suns are helping me remain silent as I walk. Who would have thought that they were useful? Not me!

When I finally stand behind him, I waste no time. I raise the stick a little higher so it will come down harder. Finally, I make my move. The thing comes rushing down, seemingly in slow motion for me, as it rushes through the air before making contact with his head. His head lowers in shock and from the force, and I can sense he's about to turn to face me and attack.

No way am I letting that happen!

I hit him again. And again. And again. I add force to each of them as I do it within a few seconds of the last. Even if I'm not the strongest, I'm wicked fast. He has no time to attack me back or recover from each blow to his head. He just has to take each blow and flies back a little each time I manage to hit him. He's getting weaker and his attempts to jump me are becoming sloppier and less focused. Eventually, he passes out at my feet.

Wow… That was much easier than I thought it would be.

I throw the stick down at my feet and stare at his unconscious body spread eagle on the ground in front of me. A grin finds its way to my face. But even to me, it feels empty. Forced.

"I win," I whisper into the air. But did I really? I don't feel like I did. I still feel the same inside; hollow. Empty.

Before I know it, I see Batman gliding onto the roof to stand next to me. I don't look up at him. Instead, I keep staring at the unconscious man at my feet and wonder what in the hell to do with him now. How long have I been standing like this? Above this man's limp form? Who knows? All I know is that Batman is back and I have no idea what his reaction will be.

God, I still can't refer to him as my father when he's in his costume.

He looks him over, head to toe, and then looks at me. I expect a lecture on how dangerous it was to confront an assassin with only a large stick as a weapon and a forced promise to never pull something like this again, but he only gives me a satisfied nod.

"Nice work," he says simply.

I shrug casually. The compliment doesn't mean anything at all to me right now. Not when I'm like this.

"So, I suppose we're going back to the manor now?" I guess. He looks down and rubs the back of his neck. That simple action gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. It forms like a rock and settles there. Something is coming, and I'm not going to like it. He faces me again with a glint of sadness in his eyes.

"The League of Shadows burnt it to the ground," he admits. "We have to check into a hotel for a while before we can start to rebuild it. Everything's gone."

At first, this doesn't mean much to me. Sure, I'll have to buy new clothes and a new phone, but everything else meant nothing to me. Wayne Manor had never been a home. It had just been a house that I lived in. I feel sorrier for _him _for losing his family home. But everything I lost was replaceable…

Except everything in my bag.

My heart drops into my stomach and I feel like throwing up at Batman's feet. Every shred of hope I had has been officially disintegrated. _Literally. _My bag was in there. My bag was brunt to a crisp in the fire. It had every worldly possession I could possibly own. It had every photograph I had of my mom and myself as a child. It had the locket she left to me when she died. It had the note that she left to me to read to find my father. It had pictures of Blake. And all of our texts stored in my phone. Now she's gone too.

I have nothing to hold onto from either of them.

I look up at Batman, trying to process this catastrophic news. The voices in my head are all repeating the same thing over and over again. Everything is gone. I've lost everything. I'll never see my mom's face again. When I feel her memory slipping, I won't be able to take a picture out of my bag and refresh my memory by seeing her long red hair or sparkling green eyes or the splash of freckles on her face. Now Blake is the same story. I'll never see my best friend again, and I don't have eight years' worth of memories of her. For me, they've both just died a second time. And I have to go through it again.

Alone.

Just like last time.

"What do you _mean_ 'everything's gone'?" I nearly shout. My fists clench so hard that I threaten to break the skin of my knuckles. "My bag was in there. It had everything I had left of my mother! It had our old photos, her locket, it even had the note that lead me to _you_!"

I'm shouting at full volume, releasing all of my rage on Batman. The harsh words spew out of my mouth directed towards him, and it feels good to get them out. I know logically that it's not his fault, but the anger tells me different. It's the world's fault right now. The world took them both away from me, and then it went and took away all proof of their existence. It's like I'm the only one here. I'm the only one that remembers them. I'm the only one who freaking _cares! _The anger is replacing the emotionlessness inside me, building and building until I'm near erupting.

"It had everything I had left of Blake! My best friend is gone too! It's like they both just died a _second fucking time_!"

I step forward and bang on his armored chest angrily. Hot tears stream down my face for a second time tonight, but these won't stop. Not matter what I do, they keep coming; They. Won't. Stop.

And that just makes me angrier.

"I have nothing left of them! There's nothing to remember them by! One day I'll forget all about them and then they'll just disappear like they never existed in the first place. I just lost them _again_, and no. One. Cares."

"I care," he insists. I narrow my tear stained eyes at him. Like hell he does! He may have lost his parents, but at least he had Alfred. At least he had _someone _there who cared. He had someone he could talk to. I didn't! I kept the memory of Mom's death deep inside me and let it grow into a deep resentment for the world that took her away from me. No one has _ever _once sincerely asked to hear my thoughts on it. No one has offered me any words of advice or let me spill my deepest sorrows. Now he says he _cares?_

"You… You…" I search for words to say. I'm so intensely angry that I just wish there was a way to punch everyone right in the face. I wish I had the damn rock I had earlier so I could chuck it at someone. Not just at him, but at everything that exists. I want nothing more than to just scream into the air and curse everything and everyone for daring to be so carefree when I carry this intense weight. My brain is so fried that I can't come up with a logical insult to slam him with. I just want to take my anger out on something and I will do _anything_ to accomplish that.

"Tú éadaí dúr ag caitheamh gaige!" I scream in my first language, pushing at his chest harder and harder. The anger just won't leave my body. Why won't it freaking go away already?! I can't do anything to relieve it short of murdering someone! I just want to get it out so badly that my fists ache to punch something. Hard. And Batman happens to be the closest person for that. He only looks down at me in confusion. I know he doesn't understand Irish, but I don't care.

"Did you just call me a 'stupid costume wearing dude'?" he asks.

I stop short of hitting him in the chest again. My entire body freezes and my muscles tense up.

"You know Irish?" I ask quietly. He nods.

"I did it for your mother," he admits. "A way to remember her after I left Princeton."

It's a tiny, even a little bit strange gesture of affection. But something about it makes a part of me, deep inside, snap. I lower my fist from his chest and start shaking from that adrenaline rush that is starting to wear off. One clear, distinct thought rings in my head like a loud bell.

_He cares._

It's so foreign to me. I'm not used to feeling this way. I'm especially not used o feeling it from my father. It's true he told me he loved me not more than a few hours ago, but that was different. You can tell anyone you love them. Words only mean so much. Actions are what truly matter. They show how you really are.

He actually bothered to learn Irish after he had already broken up with my mom. He did it just because he wanted a way to remember her. He never had pictures like I do – or I guess that is now _did_. He simply found a different way to keep her memory alive. That is what I have to do now. Pictures are nothing. Really remembering what Mom and Blake were like won't come from photos. They don't show who they truly are. Looking at a photo won't make me remember who they _really _were. I witnessed how awesome they both were firsthand. And there's no way I'll ever forget that.

And then there's my father.

I never thought he cared at all for Mom. At least not outside of the fact that she's my mother. I mean, how do you just dump someone by leaving for another city without telling them and then not returning their calls? It seems like something only a completely immature asshole would do. But he didn't just forget her. He didn't leave all thoughts of her behind at Princeton like he could have done. No, he learned Irish just as a means of being reminded of her. He learned freaking _Irish. _Do you know how hard Irish is to learn? It's not an easy language by any means. If it hadn't been my first language, I would have a pretty hard time learning it. But he did it just because he cared.

He still cares.

A bell goes off in my mind. I finally get it. After all this time, I get it. It's like dots connect in my brain to finally form the pattern that was previously missing. He cares about me. Maybe he always has. He's here for me to talk to when I need him. I can talk to him about my mom. I can talk about how devastated I was when she died without a goodbye. I can talk about how worthless I felt when all of my foster families deemed me too difficult to care for. I can talk about how lonely I always feel. He'll listen. He cares. He actually _cares._

My anger changes into something… different. I don't know what it is. I've never felt anything quite like this intense emotion. It's some weird mix between sadness and relief. Whatever it is, it causes the tears that ran down my face to turn into a river of salty tears that cause the sobs to violently wrack my body. I fall into Batman, my head pressed into the crevice of his shoulder as I weep. My entire body shakes like a leaf while I make choking sounds from trying to breathe through the extreme sobs. It's no use trying to stop them. They're strong, earth-shattering sobs. There's no stopping them now.

I feel his arms wrap around my waist to keep me from falling to my knees. I lean into him even more, keeping my tear-stained face securely buried in the section of clothing where his shoulder meets his cape. His arms stay locked around me tightly, hugging me closer. He lets me cry. He doesn't say a word. I'm able to release all the hidden emotion I've kept in not just since today, but since eight years before. I let out all the emotions I kept locked inside after Mom's death.

And for once, I feel like someone cares.

* * *

**A/N: Big bonding moment! :)  
**

**And I will restate my previous news because I know SOME people ignore notes.  
**

**THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE.  
**

**THERE WILL ALSO BE A SEQUEL.  
**

**Get it? Got it? Good.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: This is, unfortunately, my last chapter...  
**

**But don't be sad! I'm making a sequel, remember? And not just that, but I'll also be posting a link to it in the next chapter! I know I said this WAS the last chapter, but the next one is technically like an author's note of sorts, but it will also have... *drum roll* ... PLAYLISTS! Yes, you heard me correctly; playlists. As in different playlists for certain characters/situations/etc. You know, that stuff. It was actually really fun, and when I post that, I suggest you listen to them.  
**

**By the way, the end part to this chapter is, once again, written by my best friend, who still insists on being called Kate. So don't give me credit for it! I only want credit for my portion. :) Also, I give DarkPhoenixFire credit for a certain line in this chapter... You'll see. ;)**

* * *

With my father's arm slung comfortably around my small shoulders, the two of us survey the giant pile of soot and ashes that was once Wayne Manor. It's sad to see such a magnificent house that housed Waynes for generations burnt to the ground. It held all of the Wayne family heirlooms and mementos inside its walls. Now, all that is gone forever.

The wind brushes against my bundled body and gives me a small shiver. We managed to snag some clothing from a nearby shop with some money my father had to quickly withdrawal. My t-shirt, jacket, and jeans are much more comfortable than that dress that I've probably ruined by now. It's a shame, too. It was one of the few dresses I would actually put on without threatening everyone who made me wear it. And the world's ugliest shoes were traded in too. I smile and clink my new combat boots together. What way is more perfect to honor Blake than to wear her favorite type of boots?

I look over to my father, but he's too busy looking out at the wreckage, seeming deep in thought. He stares intensely, like he's trying to find something that survived.

"What do we do with this now?" I ask quietly. He looks down at me and gives me a small smile.

"We rebuild it. Exactly the way it was before."

In my mind, this is the perfect metaphor for human beings. We fall, we crash, we rebuild. It's something that I've had to do on several occasions. Except, I've never been exactly the way I was before. And now, I've accepted that. Because I like who I am now. I like who Mom has helped me become. I like who Blake has helped me become.

And I like who my father has helped me become.

"At least no one was hurt," I remind him when I see his eyes twinkle in sadness. That has happened several times as we've looked on at the remnants of the once grand house. I'm sure he misses it more than he lets on. He nods but doesn't look at me.

"I'm just glad I got you out in time," he says honestly. "I don't know what I would have done if something happened to you."

A little grin spreads across my face. The fact that we went from barely speaking to each other to taking the first steps into a father/daughter relationship in the span of some hours baffles me. I've never had a positive father figure in my entire life, so this whole thing still confuses and scares the crap out of me. But that's okay. We'll both learn more about this as we go on. He doesn't know much about this either.

I remember something suddenly. There's something I forgot to do that I need to do right now. I want to do it. I've wanted to for a while now.

Before my father has time to react, I take my arms and hug them around his waist, burying my face in his broad chest. He remains tense for a few moments, probably shocked that the ice queen he knows is suddenly willingly engaging in physical contact. Shocking, right? Soon though, he relaxes and wraps his arms around me in return. His face rests against my hair. A big smile finds its way to my face, but I'm not finished yet.

"By the way?" I mention. "I love you too, Dad."

It's my response to what he said at the party before he left to go take care of Ra's al Ghul. I never got a chance to say anything back at the time. It all happened too fast and my emotions were all over the place. But my head is clear now. Now, he has his answer.

His body tenses again in shock. Not only did I say I love him, but I called him 'Dad'. I hope he's okay with that. I've never called anyone 'Dad', but it felt natural, you know? Normal, even. Like I'm supposed to call him that. That's who he is. He's my dad.

"So, can I call you 'Dad'?" I ask anxiously. He laughs a little at my tone. I probably sound like a nervous little five year old.

"Of course you can. As long as I can call you 'Vieve'."

I sigh in relief, leaning my head against _Dad's _chest. That word sounds even better in my head. _Dad. _I have a dad.

"It's a deal," I agree. We just stand there, hugging each other. I've been starved of physical affection since Mom died and I guess I forgot how good it feels. I never want to let go.

"My, I do believe that I am witnessing the start of something beautiful," a voice pipes up. I break away from my dad and turn to see Alfred standing near us with an amused expression on his face and holding something behind his back. Dad and I laugh a little while I try to get a better look at whatever it is he's hiding not-so discretely.

"And thank you for interrupting!" I exclaim jokingly. "Now would you let us see whatever it is that you're so obviously hiding?"

Alfred grins happily, like he was hoping I'd ask. It's enough to a small ray of hope to rise inside me. I don't know what he's holding, but whatever it is, I'm excited about it. We could use a little excitement now.

Slowly, he takes his hands out from behind his back to display whatever it is he has. He makes it deliberately slow, like he enjoys the torture of waiting. A glimpse of brown comes into my vision as it just starts to come into view. Then, it's right in front of me. My eyes go round and my jaw drops. I go running to Alfred and give him a giant hug.

He has my bag.

"How did you save this?" I ask incredulously as I take it from his hands. Other than having a slight discoloring from the flames, it's perfectly okay. It's intact and in the same condition. The leather still feels tough and familiar underneath my fingers. I reach into it and pull out the bundle of photos containing Mom and even some of Blake and me. I still have them.

"It was on a table on our way out," he explains. "I grabbed it before we left."

I'm grateful that he saved these, I really am. They're important to me. But I've come to a conclusion; I don't need them anymore. Sure, I'll keep them. I'll probably hang them up in my room and then smile a little as I pass one, remembering the moment the photo was taken. But I won't rely on them like a drug. That's what I did last time. I won't make the same mistake twice.

I thought once that being here with my father would be nothing more than another foster home I would be forced to endure. I thought I couldn't let him in. Love was like a disease to me. It caused nothing but pain and suffering. Then I met Blake, and I let myself love someone again. She was like the sister I never had and I had no second thoughts about getting close to her. Her betrayal only made my resolve to never love even stronger. Was it a coincidence that the only person I confided in after Mom's death turned around and hurt me also? Not to me. To me, it was a sign that all love is pain.

Then Blake died, and my dad showed me he truly cared. It was when I realized that there's no avoiding pain. You will be hurt, no matter what steps you take to make sure it doesn't happen. It's a lesson _The Fault in Our Stars_ taught me, but one that never really got through to me. Maybe that's why I love the book so much. It relates to me in such a strange, weird way.

I would never take back the memories I have of Mom or Blake. Remembering how Mom and I used to make forts in the living room and watch movies on her days off makes me smile. The memory of Blake and me rolling on the floor in laughter during a marathon of so-bad-they're-good movies can still make me laugh out loud. I wouldn't trade those memories in for anything.

Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders again and we walk away from the wreckage without looking back once.

"Hey, Dad," I say. He only responds with an 'hmm' sound, seeming a bit preoccupied.

"When do I get a suit too?" I ask jokingly.

He laughs a little and uses his hand to ruffle my hair. I decide to up the ante a little bit. Just to mess with him.

"You know, I'd like something that isn't a total knockoff of yours, but still just as efficient. Something that I can use when I sneak out at night. What do you say?"

He looks down at me questioningly, seeming scared that I actually meant it. The look of suspicion on his face is hilarious.

"Wait, were you serious?" he asks worriedly. I burst out laughing at how scared he seems at the concept of me fighting crime alongside him. Him, trained by the League of Shadows, and me, the girl who gets lucky when it comes to a few fights. We'd make _quite_ the team.

"No, I wasn't," I tell him. He brightens a bit, but I can't help myself when I lean closer and whisper, "Or maybe I was."

He fake glares at me and messes with my hair again.

"You're not getting one anytime soon, kid," he says. I laugh again and lean in closer to him as we walk. Hey, he implied that it might happen _some day!_ It may sound cheesy, but coming to stay in Gotham City with my dad and meeting Blake are two of the best things that have ever happened to me.

Love doesn't hurt you. It only makes you stronger.

* * *

_Blake's POV (once again written by the awesome Kate)_

I woke with a gasp due to the stabbing pain in my side.

It was somewhat familiar and I remembered the bullet I had taken- yeah, that would explain the agony I currently felt in my stomach region.

I felt myself lying on and covered by some kind of scratchy sheets and deduced that I was in the hospital.

I knew the beds were uncomfortable, but damn.

How the hell'd I get here?

Delving into my painful memory, I recalled myself dying.

Is this what the after world was like?

Didn't feel like heaven, but the pain sure reminds me of some descriptions of hell I've heard. Or was this some' in between' thing? Ghosts wouldn't feel pain, so I shot down that idea.

Hehe.

Shot down.

Even in death I was hilarious.

I felt the sandy substance that sleep created digging into the corner of my eye.

Reaching up to rub it off, I dared to crack my eyes open.

I was expecting Vieve, or maybe Batman, but in a clean hospital surroundings.

Neither of them greeted me.

Because I was alone in a trashy building, no doubt far away from any hospital.

Oh shit- all that crap with the Joker went down.

HE must have saved me.

But why?

I was a nobody.

Even though I had told Vieve to leave – it still hurt that she had.

I know it was for the best, but that irrational side all people have was digging into my brain and demanding emotion.

Looking around, I realized that I was definitely at the Joker's place.

Not only was I in a half torn down building after he'd welcomed me into his chaotic life, but there were also sloppy paintings of clowns sprayed onto the green and purple walls. There were also a few hearts with the initials 'HQ' and 'MJ' drawn in them with red paint.

Or at least, I hope it was paint.

I could only guess that the 'HQ' was Harley Quinn, Joker's girlfriend according to the newspapers – but she hadn't been spotted with him for a while.

Did he finally get sick of her and kill her?

I hope not, or else a similar fate could befall me – but I'd just laugh again.

For her sake, I hope that she greeted death with a smile.

I tried to sit up, but the pain it caused in my abdominal region was too immense.

Damn bullet.

I pulled the sheets off my body to find that I was still in my corset that I wore for my uncle as the 'Demon', only somebody had taken a knife to it and chopped off the bottom so I was only wearing the uppermost part as a strapless bra.

Glancing down at the source of my pain, I saw two stitches that formed an 'X' over the bullet wound.

I wasn't sure if the bullet had been removed or not, but I knew I would end up better if it had.

Twisting my stomach brought waves of pain through my body, but I moved around anyway so I would be able to adjust to the pain.

Finally working up the nerve, I pulled myself to sit up and found that I was only on a desk that had a sheet pulled over it.

Towards the top of the desk where my head had been laying on a pillow, there was a bloody bullet and my metal skull mask.

I slipped on the mask because wearing the Demon outfit just didn't feel right without it.

The top hat was still clipped in my hair and I still had on my leggings, skirt, gloves, and boots as well.

They had only removed my mask and cut my corset.

I was about to question their logic, but I then realized I was dealing with the Joker and there most likely wasn't any.

I slid my feet to touch the floor and tried standing, grabbing the desk as a dose of pain nearly sent me collapsing on the ground.

For a moment I just stood and submerged myself into the pain I'd be dealing with for a while.

I took a few shaky breaths before releasing my grip on the desk and gaining my balance.

Moving my right foot first, I took a step towards the door.

I lunged my left foot to mimic the motion and was soon half way to the door I was aiming for since the room was pretty tiny.

Walking was getting increasingly easier and two more steps brought me close enough to where I could grasp the door handle.

The substance was grubby, but I loved the feeling of the cold metal that chilled its way through my lacy gloves.

Turning the handle, I pondered on how to approach what was behind it.

I decided the hell with it and flung open the door, facing whatever I would have to do to survive.

There was a large room in which the middle the Joker sat slumped over in his chair with a wicked grin across his paint-stained face.

"Well!" He chuckled. "It seems like Nobody finally caught up on her beauty sleep!"

**THE END (FOR NOW)**

* * *

**A/N: Awwwwww, Bruce-y and Vieve-y moments! I love writing them. Mostly because I love Bruce and I love Vieve, so writing moments between them is fun. That's one of the reasons why Blake was so fun to write (well, the times when _I_ was the one who wrote her); because she's my best friend.  
**

**Please feel free to tell me what you think and how you liked the story overall now that it's over. Well, kind of over. It WILL be coming back! Remember that!**


	19. Note and Playlist

******So, the story has come to an end! I know, I know, it's very sad. But don't cry, my dear readers. Because the sequel is HERE!**

**It is called _The Child of Darkness_, and I suggest you check it out!**

******I hope you enjoy! Just because, my best friend (AKA Blake) and I made a few playlists for a few things. I suggest listening to these songs. Especially while reading. It just puts you in the right mood, you know?**

* * *

**Vieve Playlist**

**_Exit Wounds _****by The Script**

**_Breakeven _****by The Script**

**_Battle Scars _****by Lupe Fiasco & Guy Sebastian**

**_My Immortal _****by Evanescence**

**_Demons _****by Imagine Dragons**

**_Boston _****by Augustana**

**_Best Day of My Life _****by American Authors**

**_Feel Again _****by OneRepublic**

* * *

**Blake/Demon Playlist**

**_Angel With a Shotgun _****by The Cab**

**_Ain't No Rest For The Wicked _****by Cage The Elephant**

**_Demons _****by Imagine Dragons (I know, I did it for Vieve too, but deal with it!)**

**_The Phoenix _****by Fall Out Boy**

**_You're Gonna Go Far, Kid _****by The Offspring**

**_Teenagers _****by My Chemical Romance**

**_Radioactive _****by Imagine Dragons**

**_Monster _****by Imagine Dragons**

* * *

**Vieve/Blake Friendship Playlist**

**_Alone Together _****by Fall Out Boy**

**_Young Volcanoes _****by Fall Out Boy**

**_Miss Missing You _****by Fall Out Boy**

**_How To Say Goodbye _****by Michael Smith**

**_Gone Away _****by The Offspring**

**_My Happy Ending _****by Avril Lavigne**

**_I'll Make a Man Out of You _****from the movie 'Mulan'**

**_The Only Exception _****by Paramore**

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******Enjoy reading the sequel!**


End file.
